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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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A  MODERN  PURGATORY 


By  CARLO  DE  FORNJRO 

CARRANZA  AND  MEXICO 
A  MODERN  PURGATORY 


A  MODERN  PURGATORY 


BY 
CARLO  DE  FORNARO 


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NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

I917 


COPYRIGHT,    1 9 17,    BY 
CARLO     DE    FORNARO 


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PRINTED   IN   AMERICA 


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M.  L.  R. 


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'It  is  believed  in  this  country  that  a  poor 
man  has  less  chance  to  get  justice  admin- 
istered to  him  than  a  rich  man." 

— Woodrow  Wilson,  in  a  speech  in 
Chicago,  January  11,  1913, 


INTRODUCTION 

THIS  book  is  a  record  of  the  prison  experi- 
ences of  Carlo  de  Fornaro,  artist,  writer, 
editor,  revolutionary.  It  is  a  record  of  experi- 
ences in  the  famous  Tombs  Prison,  in  New  York 
City,  and  in  the  New  York  City  penitentiary  on 
Blackwell's  Island — a  record  of  the  daily  happen- 
ings of  life  in  a  prison,  of  brutalities  and  stupidi- 
ties and  abominations ;  a  sordid  record,  from  the 
pages  of  which  gleam  many  fine  human  things,  the 
sj'mpathies  and  kindnesses  and  sacrifices  of  men 
thrust  by  society  into  the  dark  of  prison  because 
society  was  afraid  of  them. 

The  book  begins  with  the  author's  imprison- 
ment, and  ends  with  his  release  or  discharge  from 
prison.  It  is  the  tale  of  his  punishment,  but  it 
tells  nothing  of  the  "crime"  that  brought  the  pun- 
ishment upon  him. 

It  is  a  strange  story,  that  of  the  circumstances 
that  brought  him  to  prison  and  an  unprecedented 
proceeding  in  the  United  States,  a  prosecution 
for  libelling  an  official  of  a  foreign  government. 

Carlo  de   Fornaro   came   to   America   wlien   he 

vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

was  a  young  man.  He  was  born  in  Calcutta, 
British  India,  in  1871,  of  Swiss-Italian  parents; 
and,  determined  to  be  an  artist,  he  studied,  first 
architecture  in  Zurich,  then  painting  in  Munich. 
But  when  he  came  to  America  he  found  a  dearth 
of  art,  and  when  his  talent  for  caricature  was 
recognized,  he  turned  to  a  newspaper  career. 

He  began  in  Chicago,  with  the  old  Times- 
Herald,  but  the  greatest  part  of  his  work  was 
done  in  New  York,  on  the  Herald,  the  Telegraph, 
the  World  and  the  Evening  Sun.  In  1906  he 
went  to  Mexico  to  visit  a  friend — and  he  stayed 
three  years. 

Mexico  first  interested  him — the  people,  the 
problems,  the  smouldering  fire  of  revolution — and 
then  absorbed  him.  Porfirio  Diaz  was  President 
of  Mexico,  and  approaching  the  end  of  his  long 
reign  of  power.  Fornaro,  always  a  revolutionary, 
became  interested  in  politics — a  dangerous  inter- 
est, especially  for  a  radical  opposed  to  the  Diaz 
regime.  Assassination  and  murder  and  life  im- 
prisonment in  dungeons  immured  from  the  world 
were  commonplace  methods  used  in  that  day  to 
defeat  the  purposes  of  the  opposition  to  the 
undermined  Diaz  dynasty. 

But  Fornaro,  undeterred,   went  into   politics. 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

He  chose  the  way  best  known  to  him ;  he  organ- 
ized a  company  and  estabhshcd  a  daily  news- 
paper in  Mexico  City,  of  which  he  was  Director. 
This  was  late  in  1906.  He  continued  with  this 
newspaper  for  over  two  years,  doing  his  share  of 
fomenting  the  revolution  that  brought  the  Diaz 
government  to  its  fall  a  few  years  later.  Then, 
in  1909,  he  came  back  to  New  York,  to  continue 
the  work  in  another  form. 

He  wrote,  and  early  in  1909  had  published  in 
New  York,  a  book  entitled  "Diaz,  Czar  of  Mexico." 
It  was  translated  into  Spanish,  and  thousands  of 
copies  were  smuggled  across  the  border  into  Mex- 
ico. It  created  an  immediate  sensation;  it  was 
forbidden  and  interdicted ;  copies  of  it  were  con- 
fiscated and  destroyed ;  people  selling  it,  distribut- 
ing it,  giving  it  away,  or  having  it  in  their  pos- 
session, were  subject  to  punishment.  But  in  the 
face  of  this  it  was  widely  distributed ;  it  was 
passed  from  hand  to  hand,  secretly,  clandestinely ; 
and  the  demand  for  it  was  so  great,  and  the  in- 
terest in  it  so  intense,  that  in  many  cases  where 
it  was  difficult  to  procure  it,  single  copies  were 
sold  for  as  much  as  five  dollars  and  ten  dollars. 

When  the  efforts  to  stop  its  distribution  among 
the  people  of  Mexico  failed,  other  measures  were 


X  INTRODUCTION 

tried.  Agents  of  the  Diaz  government  came  to 
New  York;  they  sent  messages  to  Fornaro;  they 
came  finally  to  see  him;  and  they  offered  him 
$50,000  for  the  entire  edition  and  to  suppress  all 
future  editions.  But  they  were  true  to  the  prac- 
tices of  the  system  that  had  so  long  exacted 
tribute  from  the  people  of  Mexico.  They  knew 
the  amount  of  money  that  would  be  paid  to  sup- 
press Fornaro's  book — and  a  proposition  was 
made  to  Fornaro  offering  him  $50,000,  and  ask- 
ing him  to  sign  a  receipt  for  .$150,000. 

They  failed.  Fornaro  told  them  the  book  was 
not  for  sale  except  for  distribution ;  it  would 
not  be  suppressed  for  any  price. 

It  took  these  agents  of  the  Diaz  government 
some  time  to  realize  this  fact.  They  could  not 
believe  there  was  a  thing  their  money  could  not 
buy.  But  when  they  realized  it  they  gave  up  and 
departed.  And  then  other  tactics  were  begun, 
and  this  time  they  were  more  effective. 

Fornaro  was  indicted  for  criminal  libel.  This 
was  a  logical  proceeding,  and  not  unexpected. 
Agents  of  the  Diaz  government,  acting  ostensibly 
for  Rafael  Reyes  Espindola,  a  Mexican  Congress- 
man, and  Editor  of  the  government  paper  El  Im- 
parcial,  presented  complaints  to  the  Grand  Jury. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

Grand  Jury  proceedings  are  secret,  and  Fornaro, 
of  course,  had  no  opportunity  to  present  his  case 
before  that  tribunal.  It  was  set  forth  that  in  his 
book,  "Diaz,  Czar  of  Mexico,"  Carlo  de  Fornaro 
had  criminally  libeled  Rafael  Reyes  Espindola, 
and  Fornaro  was  duly  indicted.  One  of  the  ac- 
cusations brought  against  Espindola  in  the  book 
was  that  as  Editor  he  used  the  government  paper 
with  impunity  to  murder  reputations. 

Fornaro  was  arrested  on  April  23,  19C9.  He 
pleaded  justification.  He  was  admitted  to  bail  in 
the  sum  of  $1,000.  On  June  21,  1909,  a  post- 
ponement of  the  trial  was  granted,  to  permit  the 
defendant  in  support  of  his  plea  to  secure,  by 
Rogatory  Letters,  or  Depositions,  the  testimony 
of  witnesses  in  Mexico  as  to  the  truth  of  the 
allegations  against  Espindola  contained  in  the 
book   and   complained   against. 

Some  of  the  most  prominent  men  in  Mexico 
were  among  those  Fornaro  sought  as  witnesses  to 
prove  his  cause.  There  were  Francisco  I.  Ma- 
dero,  who  led  the  revolution  against  Diaz,  became 
President  of  Mexico  and  was  killed  when  Victo- 
riano  Huerta  assumed  the  Dictatorship  of  Mex- 
ico ;  F.  Iglesias  Calderon,  the  head  of  a  political 
party,  for  thirty-five  years  a  consistent  opponent 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

of  the  Diaz  system,  and  the  man  who  had  fur- 
nished most  of  the  material  for  Fornaro's  book; 
Heriberto  Barron,  a  member  of  the  Mexican  con- 
gress and  a  prominent  journalist  in  Mexico  City, 
and  during  the  latter  part  of  the  Diaz  regime 
an  exile  from  Mexico ;  and  others  of  equal  promi- 
nence. 

But  the  plan  to  secure  this  evidence  failed. 
The  witnesses  in  Mexico  were  "not  allowed"  to 
testify  in  Fornaro's  favor;  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity to  secure  the  testimony  required  by  For- 
naro,  or,  even  if  it  had  been  secured,  to  get  it  out 
of  Mexico ;  and  his  witnesses  were  threatened  with 
punishment  and  retaliation  if  even  by  speaking 
the  truth  they  gave  aid  to  Fornaro. 

What  testimony  was  offered  in  his  behalf  from 
witnesses  in  Mexico  was  not  allowed ;  his  lawyer 
in  Mexico  City,  Diodoro  Battalia,  a  Mexican  who 
had  offered  to  take  this  case  at  the  risk  of  his 
life,  was  not  permitted  to  represent  him.  But  a 
representative  of  the  District  Attorney  of  New 
York  was  sent  to  Mexico,  and  he  was  permitted 
to  represent  the  state  of  New  York  in  such  hear- 
ings as  were  had  in  Mexico  City  in  an  endeavor  to 
secure  the  evidence  necessary  to  establish  For- 
naro's guilt. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

On  October  27,  1909,  Fornaro  was  put  on 
trial.  The  result  was  inevitable.  Fornaro  was 
con\'icted.  On  November  9  he  was  sentenced  to 
one  year  at  hard  labor  in  the  city  penitentiary  on 
Blackwell's  Island. 

After  his  conviction,  Fornaro  was  held  for  five 
weeks  in  the  Tombs  prison,  first  awaiting  his 
sentence,  and  after  his  sentence,  during  a  stay 
pending  a  decision  on  his  application  for  a  Cer- 
tificate of  Reasonable  Doubt,  which  was  denied ; 
and  on  December  4,  1909,  he  was  taken  to  the 
penitentiary  on  Blackwell's  Island  to  begin  serv- 
ing his  term. 

Two  weeks  later,  when  the  news  of  the  sen- 
tence had  reached  Mexico,  Rafael  Reyes  Espindola 
went  to  a  bull  fight.  As  soon  as  he  was  seen 
entering  the  stands  there  was  a  great  outcry 
against  him  from  the  spectators — there  were  over 
twenty-five  thousand  of  them ;  they  were  calling 
him  "Assassin  of  reputations."  They  pelted  him 
with  missiles  and  drove  him  out  of  the  bull  ring 
in  confusion  and  ignominy.  The  Mexican  news- 
papers, commenting  on  the  incident,  called  it 
"Brutal  Justice." 

On  October  3,  1910,  Fornaro  was  discharged. 
He  had  served  ten  months  in  prison,  which  was 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

the  full  term  of  his  sentence,  except  for  two 
months  off  for  good  behavior,  which  is  provided 
by  the  laws  of  New  York. 

Within  a  few  weeks  after  Fornaro's  discharge 
from  prison,  after  the  revolution  against  Diaz 
broke  out  in  Mexico,  on  November  20,  1910,  For- 
naro  was  offered  $25,000  to  leave  the  United 
States  if  there  was  an  investigation  of  the  manner 
in  which  evidence  in  his  behalf  was  suppressed  or 
kept  from  the  court. 

Fornaro  refused  it,  as  he  refused  the  bribe  for 
suppressing  his  book,  and  as  he  refused  a  pardon 
which  he  was  told  would  be  granted  him  uncondi- 
tionally after  his  appeal  to  the  Supreme  Court 
had  been  lost.  There  never  was  any  investiga- 
tion into  his  case. 

But  the  book  that  caused  all  the  trouble  went 
on.  The  first  edition  of  "Diaz,  Czar  of  Mexico" 
had  been  exhausted,  and  a  second  edition  was 
printed.  The  revolutionists  in  Mexico  still  say 
that  this  book,  in  conjunction  with  Francisco  I. 
Madero's  "The  Presidential  Succession  in  1910," 
were  the  greatest  influences  in  bringing  about  the 
fall  of  Porfirio  Diaz. 


A  MODERN  PURGATORY 


THE  TRIAL 

IT  is  the  second  day  of  my  trial.  The 
whole  performance  is  tiresome  and 
monotonous  in  the  extreme.  On  one  side — 
the  side  of  the  prosecution,  the  side  against 
me — the  case  is  legally  perfect,  on  my  side 
there  is  practically  no  defense;  and  sur- 
rounded as  I  am  by  powerful  and  subtle 
political  influences,  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  I  have  as  much  chance  of  suc- 
cess— or  escape — as  the  proverbial  snowball 
in  Hades. 

Considering  my  hopeless  predicament 
and  my  helplessness,  I  am  astonished  at  the 
sneering  and  insulting  manner  of  the  prose- 
cuting attorney.    Why  this  unseemly  desire 


2       A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

to  swat  as  insignificant  a  gnat  as  I?* 
During  lunch  at  recess  I  hear  that  my  victim 
and  accuser  is  very  much  embarrassed  and 
annoyed  at  the  pertinent  questions  asked  by 
the  prosecutor  and  translated  by  an  inter- 
preter. 

"Are  you  a  picaroon?"  queried  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney. 

"No,"  protested  the  blushing  Mexican, 
"I  am  only  a  congressman." 

Insults  are  sometimes  the  making  of  a 
man's  reputation,  but  ridicule  always  kills, 
as  my  Mexican  opponent  confessed  to  me 
once  in  Mexico  City,  adding  that  he  never 
paid  the  slightest  attention  to  insults  or  libel- 
ous attacks  of  the  Mexican  press.  In  this 
case  they  made  him  change  his  mind  and  he 
was  sent  twice  three  thousand  miles  from 
Mexico  to  prosecute  as  libel  that  which  he 
could  not  even  read. 


*In  justice  to  the  Prosecuting  Attorney  it  must  be  added 
that  over  two  years  after  the  trial  he  apologized  to  the 
writer  in  the  presence  of  Judge  John  J.  Freschi,  at  the 
Press  Club. 


THE  TRIAL  3 

Finally  the  case  is  concluded  and  I  am  led 
through  a  maze  into  the  Tombs  prison  to 
await  the  deliberation  of  the  jury. 

The  keepers  inquire  as  to  the  real  mean- 
ing and  equivalent  in  slang  of  the  word 
"picaroon,"  and  they  seem  disappointed  at 
its  commonplace  meaning  as  compared  to 
the  phonetic  redundance  of  a  word  which 
promised  so  much.  All  seem  quite  certain 
the  jury  won't  convict,  but  I  am  of  a  differ- 
ent opinion. 

After  waiting  more  than  two  hours  I  am 
brought  back  to  court  to  hear  the  decision  of 
the  jury.  I  notice  tlie  foreman,  a  gray- 
haired,  lean  person  with  a  long  neck  two 
sizes  smaller  than  his  collar.  He  is  speaking 
in  a  low  voice.  I  cannot  hear  what  he  says, 
but  when  he  stops,  and  I  see  two  Mexican 
friends  and  refugees  come  towards  me  with 
tears  in  their  eyes,  then  I  know  my  fate. 
They  pat  me  on  the  back  and  say  encourag- 
ing things  as  to  the  effect  the  publicity  of 
this  conviction  will  have  on  the  cause  of  lib- 


4       A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

eral  Mexico.  Newspapermen  and  friends 
surround  me.  An  adverse  verdict  was  ex- 
pected; nevertheless  I  am  somewhat  dazed. 
They  ask  for  a  declaration,  but  adequate 
words  fail  me.  I  can  only  smile  and  say 
awkwardly:  "It's  all  in  the  day's  work.  I 
believe  what  is  to  be,  will  be."  And  the 
keepers  lead  me  through  the  bridge  of  sighs. 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON 

THE  next  tiling  I  remember  is  being 
"frisked,"  as  they  say  in  prison  par- 
lance, when  the  keeper  looks  through  the 
prisoner's  pockets  for  contraband. 

They  lead  me  to  my  cell  and  the  iron 
doors  clang  beliind  me.  A  deep  sigh  of 
relief  escapes  me.  The  terrific  mental  strain 
of  the  last  ten  months,  the  long  and  sleepless 
nights  of  vigil,  the  knowledge  of  impending 
danger,  have  been  blown  away  like  an  un- 
healthy mist,  and  I  feel  calm,  secure,  safely 
barred  beyond  the  reach  of  the  Mexican 
Czar's  sicarii  and  thugs. 

The  necessary  things  for  comfort  are  sent 
by  kind  friends,  and  I  inspect  my  future 
abode. 

The  cell  is  spacious,  enclosed  on  three 
sides  by  solid  steel ;  air,  light  and  ventilation 
come  through  the  bars ;  two  iron  beds  are  at- 


6       A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

tached  to  chains  on  one  side  and  let  down  at 
night;  there  is  running  water  for  washing, 
drinking  and  sanitary  purposes.  An  electric 
bulb  and  a  small  wooden  bench  complete  the 
furniture. 

The  first  thing  in  the  morning  I  make  the 
acquaintance  of  a  prisoner  who  eagerly  of- 
fers to  become  my  guide  and  monitor. 

We  walk  around  the  spacious  corridor 
which  surrounds  the  prison  proper  like  an 
ellipse,  and  by  a  connecting  gallery  cuts 
it  in  half  like  number  8.  Three  tiers  of  steel 
cages  go  up  to  the  ceiling  and  can  be  ob- 
served by  standing  close  to  the  wall  opposite 
our  cells. 

The  men  in  the  tiers  above  us  walk 
around,  some  one  way,  others  the  opposite, 
like  restless  animals  in  captivity.  Some 
young  prisoners  hang  on  to  the  bars  and 
make  faces  at  us  downstairs,  reminding  us 
of  monkeys  in  a  gigantic  cage. 

Side  by  side  with  tough  "mugs"  and  coun- 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  7 

tenances  worthy  of  the  gallows,  we  notice  the 
apparently  refined  and  well-mannered  aris- 
tocrats of  crime,  dissipated  looking  boys, 
confidence  men  in  pious  demeanour,  election 
repeaters,  dandified  "cadets"  and  "sissies." 
There  are  also  sturdy  looking  laborers,  a 
few  black  banders,  a  tramp  or  two,  several 
negroes,  two  Chinamen. 

A  chauffeur  with  leggings,  cap  and  auto- 
mobile suit,  tramps  around  with  a  dapper 
young  pickpocket.  They  shout,  laugh,  talk, 
sing,  whistle;  and  above  all  is  heard  the 
shuffling  of  several  hundred  feet  walking, 
walking  unceasingly. 

A  look  upward  to  the  superposed  steel 
cages  suggests  their  similarity  to  the  circles 
in  Dante's  Inferno ;  the  picture  is  completed 
by  comparing  my  mentor  to  Virgil,  but  the 
sarcasm  is  lost  on  him,  as  he  is  only  a  very 
prosaic  forger. 

He  informs  me  that  the  circle  above  con- 
tains the  murderers,  awaiting  trial;  higher 
up  those  on  charges  of  grand  larceny;  and 


8       A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

then  follow  the  petty  larceny  men,  and  so 
on. 

We  who  are  on  the  ground  floor  have 
more  walking  space  than  those  above  us. 
The  side  walls  have  four  rows  of  barred 
windows  which  give  poor  ventilation  and 
poorer  light.  The  air  has  a  pungent,  mouldy 
smell.  The  rumbling  noise  of  the  city  traf- 
fic on  the  Centre  Street  side  is  heard  plainly 
through  the  din  in  the  prison. 

My  companion  is  a  voluble  and  incessant 
gossip ;  his  knowledge  of  jails,  penitentiaries, 
and  court  procedure  is  amazing;  he  is  a  per- 
fect walking  prison  encyclopedia.  Nearly 
forty  years  old,  he  has  passed  twenty  years 
behind  the  bars,  either  in  Sing  Sing,  the 
Island  Penitentiary  or  the  Tombs.  Very 
pale,  clean  shaven,  rather  plump,  he  speaks 
in  a  harsh  whisper  which  gives  a  disagree- 
able impression  of  his  uncanny  knowledge; 
when  he  inquires  or  talks  about  the  outside 
world  he  is  like  a  child  seeking  knowledge 
about  a  strange,  far-away  land. 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  9 

My  next  door  neighbor  is  a  southerner. 
He  shot  a  man  who  cheated  him  out  of  all 
his  money,  and  he  spent  several  months  in 
Sing  Sing;  now  he  has  been  brought  back 
to  the  Tombs  for  retrial.  Dark,  with  pas- 
sionate eyes,  black  hair  and  sallow  complex- 
ion, thin,  calm,  deliberate  in  manner  and 
speech,  he  tells  me  of  his  case,  and  what  led 
to  his  murderous  assault,  which  he  claims 
was  done  in  self-defense.  When  I  asked  if 
he  was  resigned  to  return  to  Sing  Sing,  he 
answered  with  gleaming  eyes:  "I'll  kill  my- 
self before  I'll  go  back  to  that  hell  hole." 


As  we  are  forbidden  to  keep  knives  or 
razors  in  our  possession,  those  who  require 
a  daily  shave  climb  to  the  circle  above  to  the 
barber  shop. 

On  the  waiting  line  there  is  a  familiar 
face,  a  j^oung  man  who  had  been  a  waiter  in 
a  Broadway  cafe.    He  has  not  lost  his  red 


10     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

cheeks  and  boyish  manner  while  awaiting 
trial  on  the  charge  of  seduction. 

Those  who  can  afford  it  and  cannot  eat 
the  common  prison  fare  have  their  meals 
ordered  from  outside  restaurants.  A  young 
man  with  a  capacious  basket  offers  us  our 
breakfast  in  the  shape  of  bread,  pies,  coffee ; 
and  he  also  sells  cigars,  cigarettes,  writing 
paper,  stamj^s  and  various  knickknacks. 

About  nine  A.  M.  we  are  locked  in  and 
are  allowed  to  buy  newspapers  from  a  boy. 
I  scan  the  daily  papers  and  notice  that  they 
are  beginning  to  pay  attention  to  this  libel 
case.  There  are  several  editorials,  one 
signed  by  William  Randolph  Hearst,  whose 
championship  in  my  case  was  a  brave  act,  as 
it  endangered  his  interests  in  Mexico.  The 
mail  is  voluminous ;  scores  of  clippings  come 
in  from  out  of  town  papers.  An  unknown 
doctor  in  California  sends  a  check,  a  laboring 
man  in  St.  Louis  sends  a  dollar  bill,  to  help 
in  the  fight. 

My  first  visitor  appeared  to  me  like  a 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  11 

vision  from  a  strange  planet.  I  felt  clumsy 
and  impatient  behind  the  cold  and  angular 
bars. 

I  am  informed  that  two  witnesses  saw  the 
president's  brother  and  a  prominent  Mexi- 
can lawyer  waiting  for  my  verdict  on  the 
ground  floor  of  the  Criminal  Court  building. 
Those  two  lawyers  were  the  king  pins  work- 
ing the  wires  behind  the  scenes,  and  when 
the  glad  tidings  were  brought  they  hastened 
to  telegraph  it  to  Mexico. 

After  the  visit  we  are  let  out  of  our  cells 
for  exercise,  which  takes  place  three  times  a 
day,  morning,  noon  and  evening. 

All  visitors  are  permitted  to  see  the  pris- 
oners, but  not  twice  in  the  same  day.  Keep- 
ers and  matrons  search  the  visitors,  and  I 
hear  repeated  complaints  of  the  arrogant 
and  rough  behaviour  of  these  men  who  seem 
to  have  no  power  of  discrimination;  they 
treat  everybody  on  equal  terms  of  brutality 
and  incivility — those  found  guilty  by  the 


12     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

courts,  those  awaiting  trial  and  the  innocent 
visitors. 

Newspapermen  are  ahnost  daily  visitors. 

My  friend  and  lawyer,  K ,  visits  me 

every  day  in  the  barred  chamber  set  apart 
for  that  purpose.  As  I  descend  to  see  him 
some  one  points  out  to  me  a  special  room 
wherein  I  recognize  the  banker  Morse  con- 
feri'ing  with  his  lawyers.  My  friends  on 
the  New  York  World  send  an  ambassador, 
in  the  person  of  a  reporter,  offering  their 
good  will  and  assistance.  I  am  touched  by 
their  kindness  and  loyalty. 

The  days  pass  swiftly  as  if  on  wings  while 
waiting  for  the  sentence.    My  trial-lawyer, 

J ,  visits  me  one  evening  and  informs 

me  that  somebody  has  told  the  judge  that  I 
had  boasted  that  I  would  get  off  with  a  fine. 
A  strenuous  denial  is  made,  but  the  futility 
of  the  protest  is  apparent.  The  purpose  of 
these  underhand  tactics  is  to  prevent  the 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  13 

imposition  of  a  fine  which  could  be  paid  by 
friends. 

Criminal  libel  is  a  misdemeanor,  and  the 
limit  or  maximum  sentence  is  one  year  in 
the  penitentiary  or  a  fine  of  $500,  or  both. 

The  prosecuting  lawyers  hope,  by  the  im- 
position of  a  prison  sentence,  to  frighten  me 
into  accepting  either  a  pardon  or  a  commu- 
tation of  the  sentence,  thus  forcing  me  to 
accept  their  favors  and  preventing  further 
investigation  into  certain  proceedings. 

A  suggestion  is  made  to  enter  a  protest 
with  my  ambassador.  Such  a  procedure 
would  empower  the  judge  to  offer  me  the 
choice  between  going  back  to  Europe  or 
serving  one  year  in  the  penitentiary.  The 
Mexican  government  would  prefer  to  get  rid 
of  my  agitation  in  this  country  and  does  not 
relish  the  idea  of  assisting  the  publicity  of  a 
willing  martyr. 

My  suspicion  of  these  tactics  is  aroused 
when  I  learn  of  the  case  of  a  young  cockney 
valet  who  stole  from  his  employer,  and  who 


14     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

was  offered  the  alternative,  when  the  judge 
sentenced  him,  of  going  back  to  England  or 
serving  five  years  in  Sing  Sing.  The  young 
valet  took  great  pains  to  inform  me  of  his 
case  and  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from 
accepting  the  lesser  of  two  evils.  I  mused 
over  the  incident,  and  wondered  if  the  valet's 
case  was  not  a  gentle  hint  emanating  from 
the  Machiavellian  brains  interested  in  my 

case.     The  trial  lawyer,  J ,  suggested 

the  advisability  of  appealing  to  the  governor 
for  clemency  in  case  of  loss  of  the  appeal. 
A  protest  to  the  ambassador  was  also  pro- 
posed.   I  declined  both  suggestions. 


II 


I  have  become  acquainted  with  a  prisoner 
a  few  doors  from  my  cell,  next  to  the  shower 
baths.  Small  of  stature,  almost  a  boy, 
deathly  pale,  dark,  with  strong  features,  this 
young  English  pickpocket  is  a  new  type  in 
my  limited  experience  with  criminals. 


THE  TOMES  PRISON  15 

Every  afternoon  we  sit  together  at  a  five 
o'clock  tea  in  his  model  cell.  The  walls  are 
covered  with  half-tone  pictures  of  famous 
stage  beauties.  He  offers  me  the  place  of 
honor,  wliich  is  an  old,  rickety,  but  comfort- 
able armchair  which  belonged  to  Harry 
Thaw. 

The  bed,  the  bench,  everything,  is  deco- 
rated with  paper,  cut  out  with  infinite  pains. 
The  tea  is  excellent  and  there  are  also  con- 
densed milk,  Huntley  &  Palmer's  biscuits, 
butter  and  orange  marmalade.  Mine  host 
seldom  talks  to  prisoners ;  he  says  the  place 
is  filled  with  stool  pigeons.  When  asked  if 
he  does  not  suspect  me,  he  smiles  and  re- 
marks that  in  his  profession  a  deep  and 
varied  familiarity  with  human  nature  is  nec- 
essary, as  well  as  a  cool  head,  an  impassive 
mask,  and  great  dexterity  with  hands  and 
fingers. 

Very  good-naturedly  he  answers  my  ques- 
tions as  to  his  early  life  and  the  influences  of 
which  brought  him  to  steal ;  he  tells  me  also 


16     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

of  his  philosophy  of  life.  His  father  and 
mother  were  both  thieves,  and  he  was 
taught  to  steal  as  soon  as  he  could  walk.  The 
whole  of  Europe  was  the  field  of  his  opera- 
tions. 

Soon  after  he  came  to  New  York  he  was 
arrested,  and  although  the  detectives  could 
not  find  any  stolen  goods  on  him,  neverthe- 
less he  was  sentenced  to  seven  years  in  Sing 
Sing  on  his  past  criminal  record,  which  was 
sent  over  by  Scotland  Yard. 

Considering  this  man's  record  and  nation- 
ality, the  question  comes  to  mind  as  to  why 
he  was  not  sent  back  to  England,  instead  of 
burdening  the  taxpayers  of  the  state  of  New 
York  with  his  maintenance  for  seven  years. 

Ill 

In  the  evening  I  was  interrupted  in  my 
conversation  with  a  confidence  man  by  the 
entrance  of  Lupo  and  some  of  his  black  hand 
confederates.      Standing   against   the  wall 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON         17 

while  being  searched  he  refused  to  answer 
any  questions  either  in  Enghsh  or  in  Ital- 
ian. 

A  dark  mustache  aggravated  his  vil- 
lainous look,  while  his  black,  restless  eyes 
surveyed  his  surroundings.  One  of  his 
cronies  muttered  something,  but  he  only 
growled,  lifting  the  corners  of  his  mouth  and 
baring  his  teeth  in  angry  contempt.  Verily 
he  gave  the  impression  of  a  wolf  caught  in 
a  trap,  but  still  defiant  and  ferocious. 

We  stop  at  the  cell  of  a  poor  German  who 
is  locked  up  on  the  charge  of  attempted  sui- 
cide. He  weeps  disconsolately,  like  a  child, 
the  tears  running  down  his  haggard  and 
gentle  face.  His  clothes  and  linen  are  poor 
and  as  dirty  as  his  face ;  his  hair  is  unkempt. 
He  wrings  his  hands  in  despair  and  moans : 
"Why  did  they  not  let  me  die  in  peace?" 
He  was  out  of  a  job,  friendless  and  penniless 
in  a  foreign  country,  and  when  he  tried  to 
end  his  misery  they  put  him  in  jail.     It 


18     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

seems  a  hopeless  task  to  try  and  cheer  him 
up. 

A  harmless  looking  old  man  with  white 
hair  and  beard  attracts  every  one's  attention 
by  the  ferocity  of  his  deed.  He  has  killed 
his  own  daughter,  a  school  teacher,  as  she 
was  coming  out  of  school  surrounded  by  her 
young  pupils.  Nobody  seems  to  know  the 
reason  for  his  act.  The  judge  has  just  sen- 
tenced him  to  the  electric  chair,  and  he  ap- 
pears the  least  concerned  of  all  as  they  search 
his  cell  for  hidden  weapons  and  put  an  extra 
guard  to  watch  him  for  the  night.  An  Ital- 
ian priest  hears  his  confession  in  his  cell. 
When  asked  the  reason  for  his  inconceivable 
act  he  answers  slowly  that  he  prefers  his 
daughter's  death  to  her  life  as  a  prostitute. 
"My  life  is  in  the  hands  of  God,"  he  whis- 
pers, as  he  folds  his  hands  in  prayer.  In  the 
morning  he  will  be  taken  to  Sing  Sing. 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  19 


IV 


The  trusties  who  clean  up  the  floor  and 
the  cells  and  make  up  our  beds  are  mostly 
short  term  prisoners  from  the  i)enitentiary. 
In  spite  of  his  stripes,  one  of  them  looks  like 
a  Greek  athlete;  his  dark,  cm-ly  hair,  pow- 
erful chin,  strong  nose,  the  muscles  showing 
through  the  striped  shirt  at  the  neck  and 
arms,  excite  the  respect  and  admiration  of 
his  fellow  prisoners. 

My  trusty  is  a  weak-faced  individual,  who 
is  always  fawning  for  a  tip  with  which  to 
gamble  with  his  companions  upstairs.  His 
wife  had  him  arrested  for  non-support.  Al- 
though quite  competent  to  make  a  living 
and  to  support  his  wife  and  three  chil- 
dren, he  confesses  himself  unable  to  resist 
the  lure  of  the  games  of  chance.  Imprison- 
ment has  not  reformed  him  in  the  least;  on 
the  contrary,  indeed,  for  now  he  can  gamble 
to  his  heart's  content! 

The  detective  who  arrested  me  on  a  war- 


20     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

rant  asks  to  speak  to  me,  and  gives  as  a 
pretext  his  friendship  for  me.  He  feels 
neither  rebuked  nor  offended  when  he  is  told 
that  I  am  careful  to  choose  my  friends 
among  my  equals.  Quite  modestly  he  ad- 
mits being  only  a  petty  larceny  detective, 
but  he  is  now  anxious  to  discover  who  and 
what  is  behind  the  political  game  played  in 
my  case.  He  leaves  in  disgust  when  advised 
to  adopt  Sherlock  Holmes's  method  of  de- 
duction. 


Next  morning,  handcuffed  to  a  young 
prisoner  and  accompanied  by  a  score  of 
men,  I  am  taken  to  a  pen.  The  place  can- 
not be  described  in  decent  writing,  but  I  can 
safely  assert  that  a  more  filthy,  disgusting 
place  does  not  exist  in  New  York.  The 
stench  is  so  sickening  that  I  suffer  the  rest 
of  the  day  from  a  splitting  headache. 

After  an  hour's  wait  I  am  brought  into 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  21 

the  presence  of  a  kindly  faced  probationaiy 
officer  who  asks  me  for  addresses  of  friends 
who  might  ^yT'lie  to  the  judge,  and  inquires 
for  certain  facts  concerning  my  case  which 
did  not  come  out  dm-ing  my  trial.  She  also 
begs  me  to  write  a  letter  giving  these  facts, 
so  that  she  can  show  it  to  the  judge  before 
sentence  is  passed  on  me.  The  result  is  nega- 
tive, as  the  judge  has  already  made  up  his 
mind  about  my  case. 

The  young  man  who  was  handcuffed  to 
my  wrist  goes  into  court  to  get  his  sentence. 
He  returns,  pale,  trembling,  almost  fainting, 
and  can  only  whisper  hoarsely  that  he  is 
going  to  state's  prison  in  the  morning  for 
four  years. 

Another  companion  in  misery  is  an  Ital- 
ian waiting  for  trial.  He  is  indignant,  even 
furious,  at  his  treatment  by  the  District  At- 
torney. His  case  is  a  record  breaker ;  he  has 
been  brought  up  for  the  two  hundredth  time 
without  being  tried.  This  is  done  to  wear 
him  out  and  force  him  to  plead  guilty. 


22     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

A  lean,  dark-haired,  young  man  with  un- 
pleasant features,  suspected  of  having  mur- 
dered a  pal,  tells  a  story  of  a  third  degree 
at  headquarters. 

After  two  days  and  nights,  passed  in  a 
cell  without  food  and  water,  he  says  he  was 
brought  in  to  the  presence  of  several  masked 
detectives.  Stripped  to  his  bare  skin,  he  was 
forced  to  stand  on  a  metal  rack  with  burning 
hot  points  until  he  attempted  to  jump  off, 
when  the  whole  gang  of  sleuths  assaulted 
him,  beat  and  kicked  him,  and  forced  him 
back. 

Without  rest  or  halt,  questions  were  yelled 
at  him  in  quick  succession ;  when  the  answers 
did  not  come  fast  enough,  they  battered 
him  unmercifully  with  their  fists ;  when  the 
answers  were  unsatisfactory,  the  vilest  and 
foulest  of  insults  were  shouted  at  him,  taunt- 
ingly, sneeringly,  to  arouse  his  anger  and 
loosen  his  tongue. 

No  opportunity  was  given  him  to  con- 
centrate his  mind.     He  was  racked  by  a 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  23 

gnawing  hunger,  a  parched  throat,  a  de- 
lirious thirst;  by  painful  stinging  wounds  of 
cut  lips,  bleeding  teeth,  two  half  closed  black 
eyes  and  a  constant  hopping  on  the  radiator 
to  keep  the  soles  of  his  feet  from  burning. 

Then  they  tempted  him  by  bringing  a 
table  covered  with  luscious,  steaming  food, 
sparkling  drinks  and  expensive  cigars.  Like 
Tantalus,  he  was  intercepted  and  derided 
when  he  attempted  to  partake  of  the  food 
or  the  drink.  Meanwhile  the  detectives  ate 
and  drank  with  relish  almost  imder  his  nose; 
thev  drank  to  his  health,  and  blew  into  his 
face  the  fragrant  smoke  of  their  cigars. 

They  continued  this  torture  for  several 
hours,  until  his  body  and  mind  could  bear 
the  strain  no  longer;  and  then  he  fell  to  the 
floor  in  a  dead  faint. 


VI 

At  last  I  am  told  to  appear  before  the 
judge  who  is  to  pass  sentence  on  me.    They 


24     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

handcuff  me  to  a  negro  and  we  climb  into 
the  "Black  Maria,"  an  omnibus  with  facing 
seats,  tightly  locked,  and  with  small  holes 
for  ventilation.  A  mob  collects  in  the  streets 
to  witness  our  humiliation.  The  room  in 
the  court  house  is  crowded  with  people. 
Several  men  are  sentenced,  one  after  an- 
other, in  rotation.  I  espy  some  of  my  loyal 
friends  there;  they  look  pale  and  uncom- 
fortable. 

My  name  is  called.  I  am  freed  of  my 
handcuffs  and  I  stand  at  the  bar,  facing 
the  judge. 

Instead  of  listening  to  the  learned  judge 
deliver  his  wise  sentence,  I  am  watching  in- 
tently a  lonesome  fly  buzzing  in  a  vibrating 
aureole  frantically  round  the  top  of  his 
head.  I  am  wondering  what  the  judge  had 
for  luncheon.  My  absurd  cogitations  are 
suddenly  interrupted  by  a  phrase  spoken 
in  a  louder  tone  than  the  rest  of  the  sen- 
tence. 

".  .  .  Fornaro,  that  you  be  imprisoned 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  25 

for  one  year  at  hard  labor  in  the  peniten- 
tiary. .  .  ."  The  fly  stopped  buzzing  as  the 
judge  hfted  his  head  to  look  at  me. 

My  lawyer,  K ,  runs  out.     He  is  to 

try  to  get  a  certificate  of  reasonable  doubt, 
which  acts  as  a  stay  of  sentence;  otherwise 
I  would  be  taken  early  in  the  morning  to 
the  penitentiary. 

While  these  proceedings  are  going  on,  I 
am  temporarily  transferred  to  the  old  pris- 
on, which  is  full  of  crawling  parasites. 
Luckily,  however,  in  a  few  hours  I  am  re- 
turned to  my  cell  in  the  Tombs  to  wait  until 
the  certificate  is  either  granted  or  denied. 
But  the  certificate  is  refused,  of  course,  as 
I  knew  it  would  be,  and  as  I  think  my  law- 
yer knew  it  would  be.  It  was  a  forlorn 
hope. 

In  the  evening  a  letter  is  brought  to  me 
and  I  am  asked  to  sign  for  it.  It  is  written 
in  Spanish  and  is  an  attack  on  Vice-Presi- 
dent Corral  of  Mexico,  who  is  accused  of 


26     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

having  furnished  me  with  money  to  publish 
"Diaz,  Czar  of  Mexico,"  and  then  of  leav- 
ing me  in  the  lurch.  This  piece  of  Spanish 
fiction  is  inspired  by  a  bitter  enemy  of  Cor- 
ral in  the  hope  of  eliminating  Corral  as  a 
Vice-Presidential  candidate.  But  I  refuse 
to  sign  the  letter. 

Another  fairy  tale  comes  directly  from 
the  District  Attorney's  ofRce;  I  am  told 
that  they  know  that  President  Cabrera  of 
Guatemala,  a  bitter  enemy  of  Porfirio  Diaz, 
has  furnished  me  with  $5,000  to  publish  my 
libelous  pamphlet. 

A  friend  arrives  from  Mexico  and  brings 
an  oral  message  from  Ramon  Corral,  who 
inquires  if  I  have  empowered  an  agent  to 
negotiate  the  sale  of  my  book  for  $50,000,  as 
he  doubts  the  statement.  A  letter  is  written 
advising  the  Vice-President  that  he  is  right 
in  his  surmise,  and  that  the  alleged  agent  is 
only  trying  to  get  money  under  false  pre- 
tences. 

A  labor  leader  visits  me  offering  financial 


THE  TOMBS  PRISON  27 

help  in  my  fight.  As  money  will  not  be 
needed  in  the  penitentiary,  I  suggest  that 
an  investigation  might  be  started  in  Con- 
gress into  the  persecutions  of  Mexican  lib- 
erals by  American  officials  in  this  country. 
The  promise  is  made  and  fulfilled  seven 
months  later. 


VII 


Two  sisters  of  mercy  come  to  see  the  pris- 
oners during  the  hours  of  exercise ;  they  dis- 
tribute fruit,  and  walk  freely  and  uncon- 
cerned among  the  men,  who  seem  to  think  a 
great  deal  of  them.  One  of  them  has  kindly 
and  intelligent  looking  eyes  behind  large, 
gold-rimmed  spectacles,  and  speaks  in  the 
well  modulated  and  authoritative  voice  of 
the  woman  of  the  world.  Unlike  other  pris- 
on missionaries,  they  do  not  make  religious 
propaganda  by  distributing  tracts  and 
pamphlets;  their  attitude  is  one  of  charity, 
humility  and  usefulness. 


28     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

Protestant  clergymen,  rabbis,  and  even 
a  theosophist,  come  to  save  us  in  spite  of  our- 
selves. Their  attitude  is  one  of  aggressive 
virtue  and  militant  religious  contention — 
or  contagion.  A  certain  missionary  is  very 
indignant  because  I  refuse  to  look  at  his 
tracts  or  listen  to  his  childish  twaddle;  and 
finally  becomes  so  arrogant  and  insulting 
that  I  have  to  order  him  away  from  my 
cell  door. 


THE  PENITENTIARY 

/tS  long  as  a  nation  harbors  a  body  of 
-^J-  men  atithorized  to  inflict  punishment, 
as  long  as  there  are  prisons  in  which  such  a 
body  can  carry  out  these  punishments,  that 
nation  cannot  call  itself  civilized." 

Message  written  on  his  prison  wall, 

by  Francisco  Ferrer, 

It  was  a  clear  December  morning  when, 
from  the  little  boat  which  carried  me  across 
the  river,  I  spied  the  outline  of  the  peniten- 
tiary squatting  on  the  lower  end  of  Black- 
well's  Island.  It  was  my  first  view  of  it 
and  the  impression  made  on  my  mind  was 
so  ominous  and  sinister  that  my  heart  almost 
sank  within  me  as  I  entered  the  fateful  gates. 

"Hey,  there!     Where  do  you  t'ink  you 

are?      Take    dem   gloves    off!"    shouted    a 

tough,  strong  voice  as  I  stood  waiting  in 

29 


no     A  MODERN  PURGATOKY 

front  of  the  office  window,  recounting  my 
pedigree  and  giving  up  my  private  belong- 
ings for  safe  keeping.  In  the  old  prison,  I 
found  six  new  prisoners  waiting  in  line. 

Our  hair  was  clipped  by  a  convict  barber, 
and  we  were  ordered  to  divest  ourselves  of 
our  civilian  clothes  and  take  a  shower  bath. 
While  we  were  trying  to  dry  ourselves  with 
two  small  hand  towels,  prison  underwear 
and  striped  suits  were  thrown  at  our  feet. 

The  trousers  were  decidedly  too  long,  the 
coat,  and  the  rag — unjustly  named  a  vest — 
both  too  short;  a  cap  which  came  down  to 
my  eyebrows  made  up  this  uniform  of  deg- 
radation and  infamy.  Harlequin's  cos- 
tume never  looked  more  ridiculous  than  our 
own,  which  was  mended,  patched  and  re- 
patched  from  long  use  by  generations  of 
long-suifering  convicts. 

The  prison  authorities,  I  suppose,  are  to 
be  commended  for  their  thrift ;  but  I  cannot 
help  feeling  that  by  putting  on  those  frayed 


THE  PENITENTIARY         31 

and  wornout  caricatures  of  uniforms  we  are 
endangering  our  health. 

In  the  photographer's  house  behind  the 
shower  baths  we  are  "mugged";  our  Bertil- 
lon  measurements  are  taken,  even  to  "beauty 
spots"  and  pimples,  by  a  red-haired, 
freckled-faced  young  man.  A  sign  twelve 
inches  long,  black,  with  white  nimierals,  is 
hung  round  my  neck  over  a  black  cotton 
coat,  and  I  am  told  to  look  pleasant  until 
the  camera  has  focussed  my  profile  and 
full  face. 

Sitting  on  benches,  waiting  for  their  turn, 
are  a  dozen  prisoners.  They  are  all  old, 
white-haired,  naked  and  shivering;  old  of- 
fenders, recidivists,  tramps,  bums,  drunken 
louts;  lean,  pale,  bruised,  with  anemic,  un- 
healthy skins,  red  noses,  fishy  eyes,  bloated 
faces,  large  hands,  knotty,  ungainly  feet, 
purple  with  the  cold. 

A  very  old  man  attracts  my  attention  by 
his  immobility,  his  general  paleness,  and  his 
extraordinary  gauntness,  which  shows  the 


32     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

perfect  outline  of  his  muscles,  and  reminds 
me  of  the  statue  representing  San  Bartol- 
ommeo  in  the  cathedral  of  Milan,  holding 
his  whole  skin  over  his  arm  like  a  bath  robe. 

Squint-eyed  and  almost  blind,  this  old 
man,  of  more  than  the  allotted  span  of 
seventy  years,  seems  unable  to  recollect  his 
name,  occupation  or  social  status. 

"A  bum,  I  guess,"  remarks  the  keeper. 

It  appears  that  he  is  deaf,  and  his  neigh- 
bour nudges  him  with  an  elbow  and  shouts 
in  his  ear: 

"Say  yes!" 

"Yes,  sir!"  hastily  answers  the  old  man. 

These  derelicts  of  society  are  going  to 
the  workhouse  on  Monday. 

Later  we  are  ordered  to  clean  and  wash 
the  small  glass  panes  in  the  windows  of  the 
main  prison.  Trusties  in  smart,  new,  striped 
clothes,  with  creased  pants  and  caps,  rushed 
by  eyeing  us  with  curiosity.    "Whatcheh  in 


THE  PENITENTIARY         33 

fer?"  "Wliat  did  the  judge  hand  yeh?"  are 
the  leading  whispered  queries. 

A  pungent,  musty,  sickening  smell  per- 
vades the  old  prison,  which  is  barely  lighted 
by  a  dismal  and  gray  reflection  filtering 
through  the  small  windows.  An  inscription 
on  the  wall  shows  the  date  of  construction 
to  be  1864.  The  cell  where  Boss  Tweed  died 
is  pointed  out  to  me. 

Suddenly  the  electric  lights  are  switched 
on  and  a  bell  starts  ringing  in  a  loud,  metal- 
lie,  persistent  note,  not  unlike  the  subway 
starting  bells.  A  heavy,  automatic,  dull 
noise  in  the  distance  announces  the  ap- 
proaching footsteps  of  the  convicts  return- 
ing from  work.  In  measured  step,  each 
gang  followed  by  its  keeper,  more  than  a 
thousand  men  march  past  the  head  keeper's 
desk. 

All  the  varieties  of  ages,  figures,  pliysiog- 
nomies,  expressions,  are  illustrated  to  my 
astonished  eyes.  Young  men  witli  red 
cheeks  and  simple  faces;  strong  men  with 


34     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

bullet  heads,  broad  shouldered,  surly  or  im- 
passive; fat  men  with  wabbling  bellies  and 
cheerful  faces;  old  men  bent  and  hoary 
with  age;  slow  and  listless  young  men  with 
effeminate  gestures ;  a  few  cripples  on  sticks 
or  crutches,  and  wobbling  along  behind  the 
lines,  a  paralytic  led  by  a  companion.  They 
all  file  by,  stamping  their  feet  in  German 
military  fashion. 

At  moments  the  order  is  given  to  slow  up 
or  stop,  and  the  convicts  continue  to  move 
the  legs  in  rhythmic  step,  their  bodies  al- 
most touching,  and  giving  the  appearance 
of  an  enormous  centipede  dancing  a  grue- 
some, macabre  saraband. 

Finely  shaped  heads  are  rare;  it  looks  as 
if  an  almighty  sculptor  had  left  his  handi- 
work unfinished,  or  purposely  kept  it  in 
rude  outline.  Foreheads  are  either  too 
bulging  or  too  retreating,  eyes  too  sunken 
or  too  protruding,  noses  too  large  or  too 
small,  mouths  too  sensual  or  too  cruel,  chins 
too  powerful  or  too  weak. 


THE  PENITENTIARY         35 

Smiling  or  frowning,  aggressive  or  indif- 
ferent, surly  or  pleasant,  all  the  different  ex- 
pressions and  gestures  are  sketched  out  in 
violent  chiaroscuro,  and  compose  a  cartoon 
worthy  of  a  Frans  Hals  or  a  Michelangelo. 

JNIy  eyes  absorb  the  kaleidoscopic,  ignoble, 
unbelievable  pageant.  As  an  artist  I  am 
fascinated,  hypnotized  by  this  fantastic  pro- 
cession of  human  zebras,  slashed  with  broad 
stripes  of  gray  and  black,  with  the  four 
prison  tiers  as  a  background,  and  the  dark 
blue  uniforms  and  gold  buttons  of  the  keep- 
ers adding  a  touch  of  color. 

As  a  human  being  I  am  shocked  and  re- 
pelled by  this  grotesque,  degrading  parade. 

Is  this  really  the  Inferno  or  only  the  last 
Judgment,  I  ask  myself? 

"Get  in  line,  you  loafer!"  shouts  a  red- 
faced  keeper,  shaking  his  stick  at  me.  Thus 
I  am  awakened  from  my  dreams. 


36     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 


I  am  locked  in  the  old  prison  for  the  night 
— ^my  first  night  in  the  penitentiary. 

A  bed  made  of  an  iron  frame  with  coarse 
canvas  stretched  across  it,  two  cheap  cotton 
blankets,  a  straw  pillow,  a  large  covered 
pail  and  a  drinking  cup,  complete  the  total 
of  my  furniture.  It  is  the  simple  life  with 
a  vengeance.  The  bed  takes  up  the  whole 
length  of  the  cell ;  there  is  no  room  for  walk- 
ing except  sideways  from  the  bucket  to  the 
cell  door.  Sitting  in  a  lateral  position  on 
the  couch,  with  my  back  touching  the  wall, 
I  can  place  my  legs  on  the  opposite  wall  only 
in  a  bended  posture. 

A  tier  man  comes  to  the  cell  shouting 
"Water."  While  pouring  it  into  my  cup 
from  a  large  can  I  peer  at  his  face  through 
the  bars.  His  pale  features,  beaked  nose, 
cruel  mouth  and  yellow  eyes  make  him  seem 
like  some  tropical  carrion-eating  bird.  I 
am  so  fascinated  by  his  depraved  and  satanic 


THE  PENITENTIARY         37 

look  that  I  allow  water  from  the  cup  to  drop 
onto  the  floor. 

He  utters  curses,  "not  loud,  but  deep," 
and  returns  to  mop  the  floor. 

I  try  to  interest  myself  in  an  old  maga- 
zine, but  my  mind  seems  unable  to  concen- 
trate in  a  continued  effort;  I  read,  but  my 
imagination  wanders  away  in  an  intermin- 
able circle  without  beginning  or  end. 

The  cold  is  intense ;  the  blankets,  thin  and 
gray,  afford  no  protection.  My  whole  body 
is  shivering  and  shaking  uncontrollably  as 
if  in  high  fever,  my  teeth  rattle  like  castanets 
accompanying  a  Spanish  fandango.  I  light 
a  cigar  and  watch  the  smoke  curl  slowly, 
lazily  across  the  cell  until  it  appears  like  a 
veil  between  the  ceiling  and  the  floor  and 
finally  settles  over  my  couch  like  a  pale, 
transparent  shroud. 

Evidently  there  is  no  ventilation,  but  I 
continue  to  puff  away,  hoping  to  fumigate 
and  kill  the  fetid  odor  in  the  cell. 

Everything  is  still  except  for  the  occa- 


em0<~^ 


%3*3' 


38     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

sional  moaning  of  a  sick  man.  Finally  the 
electric  light  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  is  ex- 
tinguished, and  I  am  left  in  the  dark. 

I  turn  into  bed  with  all  my  clothes,  includ- 
ing cap  and  shoes,  trusting  in  this  manner  to 
warm  myself  and  in  the  hope  of  forgetting 
my  troubles  in  blissful  sleep. 

But  there  seems  to  be  no  rest  for  me. 

As  soon  as  a  little  heat  radiates  from 
my  body,  scores  of  bedbugs  are  attracted 
and  start  a  vicious,  incessant  campaign. 
When  I  am  deceived  into  sleep  by  a  lessen- 
ing of  their  attacks,  I  am  awakened  by  the 
cold  air  under  the  canvas,  which  freezes  my 
back  and  forces  me  to  shift  my  position. 

Horrible  nightmares  shake  me  with  a 
start  as  soon  as  I  am  lulled  into  slumber. 
My  throat  is  parched  as  if  sand  had  been  my 
last  meal,  and  I  pick  up  the  tin  cup  to  get 
a  drink;  to  my  intense  despair  the  rusty, 
filthy  cup  has  a  leak,  and  all  the  water  has 
trickled  to  the  floor. 

I  dream  that  the  cell,  with  its  massive 


THE  PENITENTIARY         39 

walls  reeking  with  stench  and  humidity,  is 
growing  smaller,  closing  upon  me  like  an 
accordeon,  until  the  cell  door  is  as  small  as 
a  keyhole  from  which  I  get  the  last  gasp  of 
air;  then  instead  of  air,  an  endless  cool,  re- 
freshing flow  of  water  rims  down  my  throat. 
But,  unluckily,  my  intense  thirst  awakens 
me  and  I  start  toward  the  cell  door  calling 
for  water  in  a  faint,  hoarse  whisper. 

A  keeper  silences  me  with  a  gruff,  impa- 
tient voice:  "Where  in  hell  do  you  think  I 
can  get  it?" 

And  I  can  hear  the  water  dripping  lustily 
from  a  faucet  into  a  full  barrel  on  the 
ground  floor! 

I  try  philosophically  to  force  my  thoughts 
into  past  and  pleasant  memories,  but  the 
present  distress  is  so  tyrannical  and  over- 
powering that  all  the  physical,  moral  and 
intellectual  suffering  of  the  world  seems  to 
be  centered  within  the  few  square  feet  of 
this  dungeon.  My  via  crucis  has  begun.  I 
reflect  with  terror  that  my  mind  may  not 


40     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

withstand  the  strain  of  uninterrupted  agony, 
and  suicide  appears  as  an  easy  solution. 

The  absurdity  of  the  impulse  is  evident, 
for  my  death  in  this  filthy  cell,  like  a  rat  in 
a  hole,  would  delight  those  responsible  for 
my  presence  here ;  and  furthermore  it  would 
shock  and  sadden  those  dearest  to  me. 

What  is  all  my  fortitude  and  philosophy 
worth  if  it  cannot  steady  and  concentrate 
my  will  at  the  most  crucial,  heart  racking 
and  desperate  moment  of  my  life? 

Why  should  my  trained  mind  crumble  like 
a  match  box  and  be  destroyed  under  physi- 
cal torture,  mental  distress  and  moral  hu- 
miliation? 

Is  not  suffering  the  greatest  of  all  tests, 
necessary,  purifying  and  regenerating? 
Why  not  wait  patiently  and  courageously 
for  the  day  of  reckoning,  worthy  of  the  gods 
on  Olympus? 

I  count  my  heart-beats  to  get  an  idea  of 
the  passing  of  time.  The  minutes  seem  to 
have  frozen  on  the  fountain  of  time;  they 


THE  PENITENTIARY         41 

drip  laboriously  as  if  each  and  every  one  of 
them  represented  eons  of  memories  and  ex- 
periences ;  as  if  each  was  attempting  to  dem- 
onstrate that  in  the  accounting  of  eternity 
they  were  as  significant  as  centuries.  In  a 
supreme  physical  effort  of  my  will  I  grip  the 
bars  and  grit  my  teeth  to  stop  the  impending 
and  foolish  disintegration  of  my  mind. 
The  waves  of  despair,  the  racking  pain,  the 
insane  delirium  are  slowly  beaten  back  into 
submission,  like  a  defeated  army.  The  im- 
agination is  disciplined,  the  will  has  thrown 
the  switch  and  illuminated  the  real  inward 
self,  as  I  stand  watching,  through  the  steel 
bars,  the  windows  on  the  opposite  wall.  I 
feel  cahn,  serene  and  strong. 

Of  a  sudden,  as  if  to  illustrate  my  state 
of  mind,  out  of  the  gray,  blue  mist,  a  large, 
luminous,  rose  disk  slowly  arises  beyond 
the  opening. 

The  sun,  the  glorious  sun!  Silently  it 
looms  up,  magnificent  through  the  haze,  like 


42     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

a  mirage  announcing  the  advent  of  better 
things  and  more  hopeful  days. 

The  same  sun  I  had  seen  arise  in  India, 
Egypt,  Italy,  Mexico,  in  many  frames  of 
classical  and  tropical  beauty;  but  never  has 
it  seemed  to  me  so  divine,  so  perfect,  so  pre- 
cious as  on  that  awful  morning. 

n 

At  6  A.  M.  a  quick,  metallic  carol  an- 
nounces a  new  day — and  a  Sunday.  With 
a  clanking  noise  and  in  swift  succession  the 
cell  doors  are  unlocked  and  on  every  tier 
the  whole  line  of  convicts  walks  along  the 
galleries  and  down  to  the  ground  floor,  to 
a  long  iron  sink,  divided  into  small  dirty  tubs 
that  are  filled  with  murky  water. 

Our  ablutions  are  performed  in  rapid  mili- 
tary style;  those  not  strong  or  nimble 
enough  to  get  near  the  crowded  trough,  be- 
fore the  command,  "Back  out,"  is  shouted, 
have  to  return  to  their  cells  half-washed  or 


THE  PENITENTIARY         43 

dirty.  Sometimes  a  laggard  insists  on  fin- 
ishing his  washing ;  and  then  an  angry  voice 
assails  him  rudely:  "Come  on,  you  God 
damn  bum,  didn't  yeh  hear  me?  Back  out!" 
And  a  guard  "fans"  him  over  the  back  with 
a  club,  pushing  and  shoving  him  all  the  way 
to  the  galleries,  as  a  reminder  to  quicker 
obedience. 

Back  at  the  cells,  every  man  stands  at 
attention  behind  the  door  with  hands  on  the 
bars,  waiting  for  the  keeper  to  count  the 
men  until  he  orders,  "Close,"  and  with  a 
deafening  noise  every  iron  door  bangs  in 
unison.  Then  after  a  short  rest  the  bell 
rings  for  breakfast,  and  we  march  into  the 
mess  hall. 

What  a  depressing,  fantastic  assemblage 
there  unfolded  itself  before  my  eyes!  Row 
after  row  of  cropped  gray  heads,  the  black 
and  gray  stripes,  moving  unceasingly  in  a 
rippling  pattern,  giving  the  semblance  of 
an  enormous,  ghostly,  shivering  tiger  skin. 
The  faint  light  from  the  barred  windows 


M     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

forces  the  tonality  to  a  low  pitch  and  adds 
to  the  vagueness,  uneasiness  and  consterna- 
tion of  my  mind. 

The  benches  and  narrow  tables  seat  fif- 
teen to  twenty  in  a  row;  and  the  two  mess 
halls  over  a  thousand  convicts. 

Breakfast  is  served  in  dented  low  pans, 
filled  with  potato  and  corn  beef  hash,  alter- 
nating every  other  day  with  oatmeal  and 
syrup.  The  rusty  tin  cups  are  half  filled 
with  an  unsweetened,  brownish,  transpar- 
ent concoction  called  coffee,  which  the  con- 
victs long  ago  nicknamed  "bootleg." 

But  the  bread,  made  of  wheat  and  corn- 
meal,  is  very  good.  The  raising  of  the  hand 
is  the  signal  for  an  additional  slice  of  bread, 
which  is  distributed  by  a  convict,  and  when 
it  reaches  you  it  has  usually  been  handled  by 
ten  or  fifteen  different,  not  to  say  unclean, 
hands. 

The  men  eat  voraciously  and  in  great 
haste,  coughing,  chewing,  smacking  their 
lips;  grunting  and  snorting  like  pigs  with 


THE  PENITENTIARY         45 

their  snouts  in  tlie  trough.  ]My  poor  appe- 
tite is  not  improved  by  their  disconcerting 
exhibition,  and  mj^  portion  is  quickly  swal- 
lowed by  my  neighbours. 

On  both  sides  of  the  hall  we  are  watched 
by  keepers  standing  against  the  wall,  or 
perched  on  high  stools,  swinging  their  sticks. 

On  my  right  there  is  a  goodnatured-look- 
ing  keeper  with  a  bullet  head  and  sleepy 
eyes;  on  the  other  hand  a  small,  wiry,  thin- 
faced,  long-nosed,  white-mustached  keeper, 
with  wicked  eagle  eyes,  who  uses  not  only 
the  foulest  of  language,  but  also  his  stick, 
on  the  slightest  provocation. 

After  the  "feed"  comes  the  bucket  pa- 
rade. Each  man  carries  his  own  bucket  into 
the  yard  beliind  the  prison  building,  facing 
the  Brooklyn  side.  The  Queensboro  bridge 
on  the  north,  with  two  feet  on  the  island 
uniting  Brooklyn  and  New  York,  appears 
gigantic  on  tlie  horizon. 

The  air  is  cold,  crisp,  exhilarating,  after 
the  oppressive  night.     The  whole  prison  is 


46     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

marching  line  after  line  to  a  well-shaped 
opening,  wherein  the  dirty  water  and  ex- 
creta are  dumped  in  succession  by  the  men, 
while  an  old  convict  belabors  its  interior  with 
a  long  pole  to  prevent  the  opening  being 
clogged.  The  clear  morning  air  cannot  blow 
away  tne  overpowering  stench  of  a  thousand 
dirty  buckets,  intensified  by  the  acrid  smell 
of  chloride  of  lime  which  is  thrown  into  the 
hastily  washed  pails. 

Ill 

The  resting  day  without  reading  or  oc- 
cupation or  exercise  of  any  sort  is  agonizing ; 
intolerable  in  the  extreme. 

From  four  o'clock  on  Saturday  afternoon 
until  Monday  morning  at  eight,  except  for 
the  short  freedom  for  meals,  we  are  locked 
up  in  our  cells.  There  is  no  exercise,  no 
work,  for  almost  forty  hours.  Most  of  the 
cases  of  insanity  in  prison  are  due  to  this 
enforced  inaction,  and  the  accumulation  of 


THE  PENITENTIARY         47 

foul  air  in  the  cells.  Even  the  keepers  who 
have  to  inspect  the  top  tiers  run  swiftly 
along  the  galleries  with  their  noses  closed 
tight. 

Hoping  to  break  up  this  dreadful  mo- 
notony, I  attend  the  Catholic  mass  in  the 
morning  and  the  Protestant  service  in  the 
afternoon.  The  one  delightful  and  exquisite 
balm  to  our  jaded  minds  is  the  music  of  the 
organs,  which  accompanies  the  singing  of 
hymns  by  convicts. 

The  chapel  on  the  second  floor  is  crowded 
with  prisoners;  and  on  one  side  there  are  a 
few  women,  with  large  poke  bonnets  cover- 
ing their  faces  to  prevent  their  flirting  with 
the  men. 

A  convict  informs  me  that  I  would  have 
been  punished  "against  the  wall"  if  I  had 
been  caught  going  to  the  two  sei*vices.  At 
tlie  slightest  infraction  of  the  rules,  I  learn, 
the  offender  is  dragged  towards  the  main 
prison  and  kept  standing,  facing  the  wall, 
sometimes  all  day  without  food  or  water — 


48     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

and  there  is  no  way  of  finding  out  what  and 
how  many  rules  there  are. 

On  week  days  the  warden  stops  to  inquire 
and  punishes  according  to  the  state  of  his 
mind  or  his  stomach,  or  perhaps  the  weather. 

The  dinner  consists  of  a  soup  of  beans, 
carrots,  lentils  or  potatoes ;  meat  with  vege- 
tables, or  cornbeef  and  cabbage;  and  "boot- 
leg." For  supper  there  is  unsweetened  tea, 
bologna  sausage  or  red  gelatine  with  bread. 

The  anticipation  of  another  night  like  the 
last  one  fills  my  mind  with  uneasiness  and 
dread  and  fright.  The  memory  of  it  is 
burned  forever  into  my  consciousness.  But 
fortunately  it  was  not  so  full  of  terror.  It 
was  bad;  but  no  other  night  ever  could  be 
as  horrible  as  the  first  night  I  spent  in  that 
place. 

IV 

In  the  morning  we  are  ordered  into  the 
new  section  of  the  prison.    The  old  bums  go 


THE  PEXITENTIARY         49 

to  the  workhouse,  and  we  await  our  turn  to 
be  placed  in  the  shops,  according  to  our 
sentences  and  our  work  or  profession.  The 
distribution  of  labor  among  us  is  strange 
and  mysterious.  A  butcher,  for  instance, 
is  sent  to  work  in  the  stone  quarry,  a  smug- 
gler into  the  kitchen  gang,  a  lawyer  in  the 
"skin  gang,"  a  "sissy"  into  the  coal  gang,  a 
waiter  into  the  garden;  a  burglar  is  sent  to 
make  socks,  and  I  am  sent  into  the  tailor 
shop. 

In  this  simple  distribution  of  labor  we 
shall  learn  many  things  which  will  be  highly 
useful  and  remunerative  when  we  go  out 
into  the  world  again. 

I  am  finally  alone  in  my  new  cell,  whicli 
is  spacious,  clean,  airy.  I  can  walk  seven  or 
eight  paces  up  and  down,  like  an  animal  in 
a  cage. 

The  steel  beds  are  chained  to  the  walls; 
instead  of  the  filthy  canvas,  a  steel  wire  is 
stretched  across  the  frame,  but  there  is  no 
mattress   or   sheets   as    there   were   in   the 


50     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

Tombs.  There  is  also  a  covered  bucket  in 
the  lower  corner,  and  a  tin  cup.  The  bars 
are  strong,  but  nevertheless  plenty  of  air 
and  light  come  in  from  the  large  windows 
opposite  our  cells.  Two  small  hand  towels 
and  a  piece  of  scrubbing  soap  are  added  to 
our  simple  belongings. 

The  number  of  my  cell  is  23,  the  last  one 
in  our  row,  and  on  the  second  tier,  which 
contains  men  who  work  in  the  tailor  shop. 
The  shops  stand  together,  in  a  separate 
building  between  the  prison  and  the  river, 
on  the  Brooklyn  side.  The  shops  where 
they  make  brushes,  shoes,  beds,  and  the  tailor 
and  repair  shops,  are  under  one  roof,  and 
under  the  control  of  a  contractor.  In  the 
shops  all  kinds  of  work  are  performed:  re- 
pairing, cutting  and  making  clothes  for  out- 
going prisoners ;  there  are  machines  turning 
out  underwear  and  socks;  mattresses  are 
made,  stuffed  and  sewn  up.  At  one  end  of 
the  large  room  a  keeper  sits  on  a  platform, 
while  another  surveys  it  from  the  other  end. 


THE  PENITENTIARY         51 

Although  the  prisoners  are  forbidden 
to  talk,  nevertheless  they  communicate  as 
freely  as  if  the  rule  did  not  exist.  When  I 
attempted  to  ask  my  neighbour  a  question, 
he  hushed  me  up  with  a  hissing  noise — but  he 
answered  my  question.  His  lips  did  not 
move,  but  I  could  hear  him  talk  in  a  faint 
murmur  which  would  have  been  inaudible 
ten  paces  away. 

It  is  very  hard  at  first  to  follow  this  new 
method  of  carrying  on  conversation,  as  in 
everyday  life  one  is  used  to  watching  a  man's 
eyes  and  lips  while  listening  to  his  voice. 
But  after  a  while  the  hearing  becomes  used 
to  it  and  is  trained  to  listen  and  catch  these 
slightest  sounds,  which  escape  the  untrained 
ear  of  the  keeper. 

The  convicts  never  glance  into  the  speak- 
er's face  or  at  his  lips;  they  look  straight 
ahead  and  talk  in  the  manner  of  ventrilo- 
quists, but  instead  of  using  a  loud  and  clear 
tone  they  whisper  in  a  low  murmur.  Men 
who  have  passed  years  in  jail  can  always  be 


52     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

recognized  by  their  monotonous,  whispering 
manner  and  their  almost  expressionless 
faces.  This  form  of  speech  is  necessary  in 
order  to  avoid  punishment. 

Under  the  pretext  of  helping  me,  a  young 
convict  comes  over  to  my  side  of  the  shop. 
He  shows  me  the  intricate  workings  of  the 
machine  which  turns  out  the  uncut  cloth  for 
the  prisoners.  Later  it  is  cut  and  fashioned 
into  prison  underwear. 

On  top  of  the  machine  the  spools  feed  the 
thread  incessantly.  Care  has  to  be  taken 
not  to  use  "sabotage"  methods,  as  punish- 
ment is  meted  out  unmercifully  by  the  con- 
tractor, who  seems  to  have  as  much  power 
over  us  as  the  warden. 

My  other  companion  is  a  young  Russian 
sailor,  healthy  looking,  fair  and  quite  peace- 
ful when  let  alone.  He  warns  me  that  my 
anxious  instructor  is  a  "stool  pigeon,"  who 
proves  his  status  by  giving  me  very  detailed 
instructions  as  to  how  to  manage  to  escape 
successfully. 


THE  PENITENTIARY         53 

I  ask  why  he  has  not  put  his  own  methods 
into  practice ;  and  he  gives  as  an  excuse  that 
he  is  going  to  be  released  in  a  few  days. 

Then  he  furnishes  me  with  paper,  pencil, 
and  soap ;  and  he  even  offers  to  send  out  let- 
ters for  me.  "When  I  answer  that  I  have  no 
letters  to  write  he  recites  an  endless  list  of 
rules,  and  tells  me  how  to  evade  them,  and 
how  to  keep  the  friendsliip  of  the  keepers. 

He  reveals  to  my  astonished  ears  the  un- 
derground system  of  communication  with 
the  outer  world.  With  money  and  friends 
a  convict  can  get  all  the  contraband  he  de- 
sires: dope,  newspapers,  matches,  letters — 
coming  in  and  going  out — whiskey,  writing 
paper  and  pens,  stamps,  delicacies,  tobacco. 
]My  mentor  has  passed  a  year  in  the  peniten- 
tiary for  the  offense  of  "repeating,"  or  of 
voting  many  times  on  election  day.  The 
gang  leader  who  paid  him  for  his  work  is 
looking  out  for  him  from  his  Brooklyn 
haunts. 

Facing  us  there  is  a  long  table  at  which 


54     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

old  convicts  are  sitting,  without  making  a 
pretence  at  working.  As  long  as  they  keep 
quiet  nobody  notices  them.  Some  of  them 
look  over  seventy  years  old;  sad- faced,  pal- 
lid, curved,  almost  venerable  in  their  old  age. 
They  are  mostly  old  sneak  thieves  and  pick- 
pockets, the  wrecks  and  failures  of  their  pro- 
fession. They  sit  like  graven  images,  si- 
lently, patiently,  hour  after  hour,  year  in 
and  year  out,  until  some  fine  day  one  of 
them  will  be  found  rigid  in  his  cell,  and  then 
four  striped  convicts  and  a  keeper  acting  as 
a  pallbearer  will  carry  him  away  in  a  large 
black  coffin  to  the  morgue. 

To-day  for  the  first  time  since  my  incar- 
ceration I  beheld  the  reflection  of  my  face 
in  a  mirror.  The  sight  was  humiliating  and 
shocking  in  the  extreme.  My  keen  sense  of 
caricature  lowered  my  well  fed  conceit  half 
way  down  the  ladder  of  vanity. 

Then  I  consoled  myself  by  thinking  of  all 
the  good-looking,  impressive,  well-groomed 
men  friends,  enemies  and  acquaintances  of 


THE  PENITENTIARY         55 

mine;  and  I  tried  to  imagine  them  with 
chpped  hair,  togged  out  in  ill-fitting, 
patched,  striped  garments  and  cap;  collar- 
less  and  tieless;  with  a  week's  growth  of 
beard  on  their  cheeks — and  the  comparison 
made  me  laugh  and  cheered  me  up  consid- 
erably. 

The  Deputy  Warden  comes  in  on  his 
daily  visit.  His  approach  has  been  tele- 
graphed in  some  mysterious  manner  and  the 
whole  shop  takes  on  a  lively  bustling  appear- 
ance. Second  in  rank  as  an  officer  of  the 
penitentiary,  the  "Dep,"  a  tall,  good-look- 
ing man,  strides  into  the  room  like  a  Prus- 
sian officer.  He  is  not  disliked  by  the  con- 
victs, as  he  seems  just  in  his  dealings  with 
them. 

Going  back  from  work  through  the  yards, 
a  fat  German  convict  who  had  been  working 
in  the  brush  shops,  broke  away  from  the  line 
and,  before  he  could  be  stopped,  jumped  in- 
to the  river  in  an  attempt  to  drown  himself. 
A  few  shots  were  fired.    A  negro  and  two 


56     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

white  convicts  jumped  in  after  him,  and  with 
the  help  of  a  keeper  who  patrols  the  island 
in  a  row  boat,  they  fished  him  out.  They 
laid  him  flat  on  the  ground  and  worked  to 
revive  him. 

His  fat  belly  stuck  out  like  a  barrel,  his 
face  was  livid,  his  lips  purple.  Finally  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  sputtered  and  mur- 
mured:   "Let  me  die!    Let  me  die!"    "Shut 

up,  you  s !"  yeUed  an  angry  keeper,  and 

he  was  dragged  feet  first  to  the  hospital. 


My  skin  has  been  itching  for  two  days, 
and  I  attribute  it  to  the  coarse  underwear 
and  ill-fitting  clothes.  In  my  cell  after  the 
day's  work  I  make  a  careful  inspection  and 
am  quite  frightened  to  find  my  whole  body 
covered  with  red  spots.  Evidently  I  have 
caught  some  skin  disease  from  those  tattered 
old  rags  which  have  been  worn  by  genera- 
tions of  unclean  and  diseased  convicts.    The 


THE  PENITENTIARY         57 

thought  of  having  to  pass  a  year  in  a  prison 
hospital  is  anything  but  cheerful. 

I  turn  my  thoughts  to  other  things  by 
trying  to  read  a  novel  from  the  prison  li- 
brary. A  slip  had  been  left  in  the  cell  to 
be  filled  out  with  the  name  of  any  book  that 
I  might  desire  to  read.  In  my  innocence  I 
put  down  "Shakespeare's  plays  or  the 
Bible."  A  novel  entitled  "Truthful  Jane" 
was  left  in  their  stead. 

But  I  cannot  read.  And  so  I  start  in- 
stead to  inspect  my  surroundings.  The  new 
cells  compare  very  favorably  with  the  cells 
of  the  old  prison,  which  are  really  holes  in 
the  wall  and  reeking  with  the  mysterious 
unwholesome  smell  of  rat  holes  and  grave- 
yards. 

At  one  end  of  the  cell  opposite  the  door 
are  two  small  openings  for  ventilation;  one 
at  the  top  on  the  right  liand  side  and  the 
other  at  the  bottom  on  the  left.  In  trying  to 
find  out  the  depth  and  direction  of  the  holes 
I  plunge  my  arm  into  the  opening,  and  my 


58     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

hand  feels  a  square  object.  It  is  a  small 
bible !  I  am  delighted  by  the  discovery.  On 
the  fly  leaf  there  is  some  handwriting  in  pen- 
cil in  a  careful,  intelligent  hand:  "To  my 
successor:  May  this  book  while  away  your 
long  and  weary  hours  and  make  you  forget 
your  troubles  and  worries  as  it  did  to  me. 
Don't  forget  to  replace  the  book  where  you 
found  it  when  you  leave." 

A  tier  man  comes  to  the  cells  with  a  light 
for  those  who  care  to  smoke.  He  is  a  pleas- 
ant-faced individual,  quite  polite  and  ready 
to  do  any  small  services  within  his  limited 
powers.  I  find  out  that  he  has  been  con- 
demned to  a  year  for  keeping  back  mail  in 
the  post  office.  The  tier  man  who  had  made 
such  a  disagreeable  impression  on  me  that 
first  night  in  the  old  prison,  is  a  church  thief. 

My  battered  and  rusty  cup  has  been  filled 
up  with  water.  I  am  afraid  to  drink  from  it, 
as  it  might  have  been  used  by  some  con- 
sumptive or  syphilitic  convict.  Necessity 
being  a  great  inventor,  I  press  some  paper 


THE  PENITENTIARY         59 

to  the  rim  of  the  cup  to  prevent  my  lips  from 
touching  it. 

As  I  walk  up  and  down  the  cell  I  am  al- 
ways unconsciously  trying  to  put  my  cold 
hands  in  my  trousers  pockets,  only  to  dis- 
cover over  and  over  again  that  there  are  no 
pockets  there,  only  one  on  the  inside  of  the 
coat. 

The  clipping  of  my  hair  so  close  to  the 
skin  at  the  height  of  the  cold  season  has 
brought  a  cold  in  tlie  head.  I  have  no  hand- 
kerchief, and  shall  have  to  wait  a  whole 
month  until  they  allow  me  to  write  to  have 
a  few  sent  by  mail. 

These  apparent  trifles,  and  all  the  nag- 
ging, idiotic  rules,  invented  by  senile  com- 
missions and  wardens  to  torment  the  help- 
less captives  of  society,  are  always  magni- 
fied by  men  brooding  in  the  solitude  of  cells. 
But  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  permit 
anything  to  ruffle  my  equanimity,  so  I  pick 
up  some  letters  from  friends  and  read  and 
reread  their  cheering  contents.     If  people 


60     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

who  wi'ite  to  their  unfortunate  friends  in 
prison  only  guessed  how  they  yearned  to  re- 
ceive those  familiar  scrawls,  and  how  they 
are  treasured  and  memorized,  they  would 
write  oftener. 

A  night  keeper  walks  by  like  a  shadow, 
flashing  a  bull's  eye  lamp  into  the  cells  to 
catch  us  in  any  infringements  of  the  rules. 

There  is  only  one  rule  tacked  up  on  the 
walls,  but  the  other  999  we  have  to  guess  or 
learn  from  fellow  convicts.  The  list  of  rules 
which  we  have  to  find  out  at  our  own  expense 
or  from  wiser  convicts  would  fill  up  a  small 
volume. 

As  there  are  no  written  rules,  and  nobody 
informs  us  of  all  the  unwritten  rules  on  our 
entrance  here,  as  is  done  in  Sing  Sing,  the 
thought  comes  to  my  mind  that  this  appar- 
ent forgetfulness  is  really  meant  to  give  the 
warden  and  the  keepers  an  unchallenged 
power  of  persecution  over  suspected  and  un- 
ruly convicts. 

Most  of  the  punishments  inflicted  by  the 


THE  PENITENTIARY         61 

warden  are  for  infractions  of  rules  which 
the  newcomers  are  in  entire  ignorance  of, 
and  these  infractions  occur  no  matter  how 
obedient  and  willing  the  new  arrivals  may- 
be to  keep  within  bounds  of  the  prison  laws. 
The  foreigners,  Italians,  Slavs  and  Teutons, 
all  those  who  do  not  know  English  and  who 
cannot  learn  the  rules  from  their  fellow  pris- 
oners, are  the  greatest  sufferers  from  this 
carelessness,  whether  it  is  intentional  or 
otherwise. 


VI 


After  breakfast  I  was  watching  from  my 
cell  some  sparrows  that  had  nested  inside 
the  prison  walls,  high  up  on  top  of  the  large 
windows  facing  the  tiers.  I  dropped  some 
bread  crumbs  on  the  floor  of  the  gallery,  and 
some  on  my  cell  floor,  to  induce  the  little 
birds  to  come  in. 

At  first  they  were  afraid  to  trust  them- 
selves inside  the  bars  of  my  cell;  but  they 


62     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

kept  fluttering  about  nervously  outside, 
keeping  up  an  incessant  twitter  and  chatter 
that  sounded  quite  musical  to  my  ears. 

Finally  they  grew  bolder,  and  recklessly 
they  flew  into  my  cell,  first  peeping  at  me, 
with  bended  heads  as  if  they  would  ask: 
"Are  we  really  safe  here  from  capture  or 
treachery  of  any  kind?"  And  hastily  pick- 
ing up  the  crumbs,  they  flew  out  to  inform 
their  companions  of  the  god-send  of  fat 
bread  crumbs  in  a  large,  barred  room,  in- 
stead of  the  poor  himting  in  the  prison  court- 
yard. 

Then  they  came  back  fearlessly,  and 
thanked  me  with  quick  little  nods  of  their 
pretty  heads,  and  sidelong  trusting  looks 
from  their  black  beads  of  eyes;  with  low, 
graceful  courtesies  and  a  cheerful  piping 
song. 

And  then  one  morning  a  keeper  who  had 
been  attracted  by  the  noise,  shooed  the  birds 
away  and  swore  in  a  grufl"  voice,  warning 
me  that  it  was  against  the  rules  to  throw 


THE  PENITENTIARY         63 

crumbs  on  the  floor,  as  well  as  to  keep  bread 
in  my  pockets  or  in  my  cell. 

Once  a  week  the  prisoners  are  privileged 
to  wait  in  line  to  see  the  warden,  to  protest 
against  any  injustice,  to  recount  a  grievance, 
or  to  ask  a  favor. 

Like  a  dozen  or  more  I  stood  waiting  for 
the  quick-lunch  justice  of  the  Czar  of  the 
penitentiary.  After  a  while  he  appeared, 
accompanied  by  a  tall  young  secretary  who 
jotted  down  our  names  and  the  details  of 
the  business  on  hand.  Walking  slowly,  with 
bent  shoulders,  hands  behind  his  back,  the 
warden  seemed  to  be  about  seventy-five 
years  old.  His  face  was  furrowed  with  ir- 
regular, meaningless  wrinkles,  and  he  had 
small  shifty  eyes,  with  white  hair  and  a 
white  beard.  He  had  a  habit  of  staring  at 
the  convict  who  was  speaking  to  him,  and 
suddenly  bending  one  ear  toward  the  speak- 
er as  if  he  were  partially  deaf. 

The  warden's  answers  came  quickly,  in 


64     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

the  jerky,  high  pitched  voice  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel  cantors,  and  often  breaking  under 
the  strain  of  anger.  A  convict  suffering 
from  locomotor  ataxia,  leaning  on  a  walking 
stick,  hanging  on  to  a  companion,  begged 
for  permission  to  get  a  pair  of  crutches  .  .  . 
his  mother  would  get  them  for  him. 

"What  for?"  queried  the  warden,  inno- 
cently. 

"Because  I  can't  walk  with  this  stick," 
answered  the  convict. 

"Then  why  don't  you  get  a  cab!"  said 
the  warden.  And  he  snickered  and  then 
coarsely  guffawed. 

Again  he  fui'iously  upbraided  another  pe- 
titioner. 

"Where  do  you  think  you  are?  At  the 
Waldorf-Astoria?  Next  thing  they'll  be 
asking  me  to  get  them  flowers,  candy  and 
theatre  tickets.  I  am  here  to  see  that  you 
are  punished.     See?" 

After  having  thus  vented  his  spleen  he 
uttered  some  alleged  witticism  at  the  ex- 


THE  PENITENTIARY         65 

pense  of  the  helpless  convict,  and  showed  a 
great  appreciation  of  his  own  humor,  un- 
covering a  row  of  yellow,  brown,  half-de- 
cayed teeth  in  a  sneering  grin  most  unpleas- 
ant to  behold. 

]My  turn  came,  and  I  asked  for  an  extra 
blanket,  as  the  cold  was  intense  and  the 
metal  springs  of  the  bed  offered  no  protec- 
tion against  it.  This  it  seemed  was  also 
against  the  rules.  When  I  suggested  that 
as  he  was  the  warden  he  could  make  and 
unmake  the  rules,  he  did  not  answer,  but 
asked  irrelevantly  how  I  liked  his  hotel? 

I  answered  that  it  was  preferable  to  the 
castle  of  San  Juan  de  UUoa  in  Vera  Cruz. 

He  looked  puzzled,  then  he  smiled  as  if 
he  saw  the  point. 

"We'll  take  care  of  you,"  he  repeated 
twice,  waving  a  thin,  wrinkled,  old  hand. 


66     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

VII 

At  lunch  time  the  sick  convicts  ask  their 
keepers  for  permission  to  see  the  doctor. 
They  are  kept  waiting  in  line  near  the  head 
keeper's  desk.  The  head  keeper  is  a  person 
of  great  power  in  the  prison,  only  third  in 
importance  of  rank,  but  as  he  comes  in  daily 
contact  with  the  convicts,  his  good  or  ill  will 
is  felt  more  keenly  than  the  warden's.  The 
discipline  of  the  prison,  the  distribution  of 
the  mails,  of  the  clothes,  underwear,  shoes, 
all  the  details  of  management,  are  carried 
on  through  him. 

As  we  were  waiting  for  the  doctor,  the 
head  keeper  came  along  to  look  us  over.  He 
had  a  big  brown  face,  and  a  large  mustache 
covered  his  mouth;  two  piercing  gi*ay  eyes 
gave  the  impression  of  an  unlimited  reserve 
of  pent-up  bile,  anger  and  contempt,  which 
at  times  flowed  in  a  torrent  of  choice  and 
rare  blasphemies. 

"Damn  you,  wop!    I'll  cure  you!    You 


THE  PENITENTIARY         67 

s !'*  he  shouted,  and  with  both  hands  he 

clutched  the  neck  of  an  Italian,  and  shook 
him  as  savagely  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat. 
His  face  red  and  with  sickness  in  his  eyes, 
the  unfortunate  man  tried  to  explain  that 
he  had  a  sore  throat  and  a  fever;  but  with- 
out success.  He  onlv  aroused  another  fit 
of  anger. 

"You're  a  faker,  that's  what  vou  are! 
You're  all  fakers,  every  one  of  you!"  he 
yelled  at  us,  and  finished  up  by  spitting  on 
the  floor.  The  next  moment  he  punished 
a  convict  for  doing  the  selfsame  thing. 

A  young  doctor  hardly  out  of  his  teens 
entered  the  old  prison,  escorted  by  a  convict 
carrying  a  tray  filled  with  medicine  bottles. 

Sick  prisoners  are  cured  in  the  simple, 
old-fashioned  way  of  having  mixtures  ad- 
ministered to  them,  the  medicine  bottles  be- 
ing labeled  according  to  the  contents,  and 
the  most  prevalent  ailments,  which  do  not 
require  the  remanding  of  the  sick  man  to 
the  hospital.    Cough  mixture  seemed  to  be 


68     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

quite  popular,  fever  mixture  less  so,  then 
followed  constipation  and  diarrhoea  mix- 
ture, toothache  mixture,  court-plaster,  some 
pills,  and  various  ingredients  for  venereal 
diseases,  some  cotton  gauze,  and  the  indis- 
pensable large  bottles  containing  salts  and 
codliver  oil. 

The  visit  did  not  take  long.  Those  who 
had  come  twice  on  the  line  without  having 
been  found  sick  were  punished  "against  the 
wall." 

After  a  short  inspection  the  doctor 
ordered  me  to  the  hospital,  without  allaying 
my  fears  by  any  diagnosis  or  declaration  of 
a  disease,  but  cautioned  me  to  take  a  hot 
bath  every  day,  and  to  rub  the  skin  with  sul- 
phur ointment. 


THE  HOSPITAL 

THE  hospital  is  situated  on  top  of  the 
chapel,  over  the  main  entrance  and  hall 
of  the  prison. 

Two  spacious  rooms  are  dedicated  to  that 
purpose.  The  smaller  one  with  a  bathroom 
faces  the  Brooklyn  side  and  overlooks  the 
mess  hall,  the  keepers'  dining  room  and  kit- 
chen, and  is  usually  kept  apart  for  the  con- 
sumptives. The  larger  room,  also  with  a 
bathroom,  contains  a  dozen  beds,  a  closet 
for  underwear  and  clothes,  another  for  the 
crockery,  two  tables,  two  medicine  closets, 
chairs,  and  some  small  tables  for  patients 
near  each  bed. 

Six  windows  face  towards  East  55th 
Street  on  the  Manhattan  side.  Two  higher 
windows  look  over  the  roof  of  the  prison, 
across  the  Queensboro  bridge.  The  hard- 
wood flooring,  the  small  hospital  cots,  with 


70     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

mattresses,  white  pillows  and  spreads,  all 
spotlessly  clean,  made  the  place  look  quite 
cheerful  and  sunny.  Every  opening  was 
heavily  barred.  A  spacious,  clean  and  airy 
prison,  but  still  a  prison,  with  a  tantalizing 
outlook  towards  New  York,  which  seemed 
so  near  that  one  could  discern  people  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river. 


There  are  five  sick  men,  plus  three  con- 
sumptives, in  the  two  rooms;  and  our  large 
room  looks  deserted. 

The  patients  wear  a  cheap,  white  shirt, 
instead  of  the  striped  one,  and  slippers  in- 
stead of  shoes. 

A  bald-headed  man  with  small,  kindly 
gray  eyes  and  a  close-cropped  mustache, 
keeps  perfect  discipline  without  raising  his 
voice,  using  profane  language,  or  bullying 
the  patients.  In  character,  breeding,  morals, 
education,  he  is  superior  to  the  warden  and 


THE  HOSPITAL  71 

to  most  of  the  keepers.  His  name  is  Charles 
Noonan. 

Between  the  hours  of  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morninff  and  four  in  the  afternoon  a  uni- 
formed  hospital  orderly  attends  to  the  distri- 
bution of  medicine,  takes  temperatures,  and 
reports  to  the  doctor.  At  night  another 
orderly  takes  his  place. 

The  cleanliness  of  the  two  hospitals,  the 
distribution  of  bedding,  laundry  and  food, 
is  in  the  hands  of  a  convict,  usually  a  pa- 
tient; all  the  unpleasant  tasks  and  irksome 
duties  which  the  orderly  is  too  proud  or  too 
lazy  to  perform  the  trusty  is  obliged  to  do. 

Sen^ant  and  boss,  scullion  and  diplomat, 
doctor's  help  and  sick  man,  waiter  and  ma- 
jordomo,  the  convict  orderly  is  the  last  buf- 
fer in  tlie  line  of  authority,  the  expiatory 
goat  of  the  penitentiary  hospital,  a  suffering 
soul  in  a  modern  purgatory. 

When  a  criticism  drops  from  the  lips  of 
the  supreme  Prison  Commissioner,  the 
Warden  passes  it  along  to  the  "Dep,"  who 


72     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

calls  down  the  hospital  keeper,  who  in  his 
turn  upbraids  the  orderly,  who  in  the  end 
roasts  the  trusty. 

The  present  trusty  is  an  old  man  suffer- 
ing from  an  eczema  on  his  fat  legs.  Tall, 
bloated,  gray,  pale,  he  is  despised  by  the  con- 
victs for  his  avariciousness,  his  gluttony,  his 
arrogant  attitude.  They  suspect  him  of 
being  a  stool  pigeon,  and  they  revenge  them- 
selves by  making  his  life  miserable  through  a 
series  of  cruel  persecutions. 

Another  trusty  who  sleeps  in  a  cell  down- 
stairs, and  eats  in  the  keeper's  kitchen,  is  a 
famous  pickpocket. 

Like  all  or  nearly  all  the  old  timers,  Ed, 
as  he  is  called,  never  gossips  about  his  pri- 
vate affairs;  he  may  joke  and  talk  about 
other  prisoners,  but  never  does  he  say  a  word 
about  his  life  outside.  He  is  an  old  offender, 
but  obedient,  useful  and  energetic;  and  he  is 
always  welcomed  back  as  a  trusty  or  a  tier 
man. 

Once  inadvertently  I  asked  him:    "What 


THE  HOSPITAL  73 

do  you  do  outside  for  a  living,  Ed?"  His 
laconic  answer  was,  "Oh,  everybody!" 

But  one  evening  several  weeks  later,  when 
we  had  become  quite  chunimy,  at  the  psy- 
chological moment  when  even  the  most  silent 
and  sullen  crooks  will  sometimes  confess  and 
bare  their  hearts,  he  unfolded  his  life,  his 
methods,  his  cynicism  and  his  mental  make- 
up. 

It  was  an  amazing  story,  interspersed  with 
slang,  picturesque  phrases,  and  a  callous, 
sordid  philosophy.  Later,  the  testimony  of 
other  thieves  proved  that  his  story  was  true. 

As  he  told  his  story,  it  seems  that  clever 
thieves  organize  themselves  into  ti*usts,  or 
what  they  call  "mobs,"  frequent  the  same 
"joints"  and  "hang-outs,"  and  work  in  co- 
operation with  detectives.  When  a  fair,  a 
holiday,  or  any  extraordinary  event  is  an- 
nounced in  any  part  of  the  state — or  any- 
where in  the  world,  for  that  matter — they 
are  "tipped  off,"  or  told  about  it  by  the 
"bulls." 


74     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

Then  when  the  event  "comes  off,"  and  a 
great  crowd  is  gathered,  a  whole  gang  of 
pickpockets,  two  or  three  score  of  them, 
arrive  on  the  spot. 

To  save  time  one  after  another  is  sent  to 
the  fair  authorities  to  infoiTn  them  of  the 
presence  of  pickpockets,  and  an  official 
jmnps  on  a  platform  or  soap  box,  and  shouts 
a  warning  to  the  crowd  a'_;ainst  thieves;  and 
while  this  is  going  on  the  keen-eyed  "dips" 
watch  the  astonished  and  frightened  people 
place  their  hands  on  the  pocket  or  the  re- 
gion which  contains  their  valuables.  With 
this  knowledge  they  can  work  without  blun- 
dering, and  in  teams  of  three  or  four,  by 
rubbing  or  jostling  against  their  victims, 
they  soon  relieve  them  of  their  money  or 
jewelry. 

Watches  are  seldom  stolen,  as  they  are  too 
easy  of  identification.  Often  a  prominent 
"sucker"  discovers  his  loss  before  he  leaves 
the  fair,  and  starts  kicking  up  a  row.    At 


THE  HOSPITAL  75 

once  a  detective  offers  to  find  and  return  the 
stolen  goods  for  a  reward. 

Then,  after  it  is  over,  the  result  of  the 
day's  work  is  divided  between  the  "bulls" 
and  the  "dips." 

Ed  became  a  pickpocket  right  after  he 
left  school.  From  the  reform  school  to  the 
house  of  refuge,  from  the  house  of  refuge 
to  the  state  reformatory,  from  the  reforma- 
tory to  the  penitentiary,  he  has  climbed  all 
the  rungs  of  the  ladder  of  crime. 

He  soon  discovered  that  "lonesome,"  sin- 
gle-handed thieves  were  crushed  in  the  stiiig- 
gle,  so  he  joined  the  Benevolent  Association 
for  Mutual  Protection  of  "dips"  and 
"guns,"  paid  his  dues,  and  then  when  he 
was  caught,  he  got  off*  with  a  light  sentence. 
His  return  to  prison  was  part  of  the  game; 
he  came  back  philosophically,  as  a  travelling 
salesman  returns  to  his  favorite  hostelry,  as 
an  intermittent  but  familiar  visitor,  recog- 
nized by  the  keepers  and  convicts,  and  know- 


76     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

ing  all  the  ropes  along  the  prison  line  of 
least  resistance. 

Ed  barely  looks  his  age,  although  his  face 
bears  the  stamp  of  his  dissipated  life  and  the 
mannerisms  peculiar  to  his  breed.  He  is  a 
perfect  fruit  of  the  criminal  system.  Sod- 
den with  all  the  sexual  perversities  acquired 
in  prison,  he  has  finally  caught  the  white 
plague,  is  afflicted  with  several  venereal  dis- 
eases, and  has  become  an  inveterate  dope 
fiend.  Although  keen  of  intelligence,  he 
seems  to  be  without  moral  prop  or  ideal  of 
any  kind ;  coldly  and  cynically  he  surveys  so- 
ciety as  his  natural  prey,  his  rightful  enemy, 
and  an  object  of  his  revenge. 

JMorally,  intellectually  and  physically  as 
crooked  and  shifty  as  a  mountain  trail,  he 
seems  utterly  beyond  redemption,  human 
or  divine. 


THE  HOSPITAL  77 

II 

The  view  from  the  hospital  window  shows 
the  bridge  on  the  right ;  in  front,  the  row  of 
cheap  tenement  houses  and  streets  abutting 
on  the  river  front  from  the  forties  to  the 
sixties;  and  on  the  left,  looming  out  of  the 
city-scape,  appears  the  Metropolitan  tower. 
Behind  the  innumerable  painted  signs  on 
the  river  front,  the  Cathedral  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, the  Plaza  Hotel  and  the  St.  Regis  can 
be  seen  distinctly ;  the  Times  Building  is  also 
vaguely  outlined.  In  the  daytime  the  sight 
is  commonplace;  but  after  the  sun,  like  an 
enormous  ball  of  fire,  has  dipped  behind  the 
city  line  back  of  the  streets  in  the  fifties,  the 
scene  becomes  inspiring  to  a  painter. 

The  shadows,  full  of  greens  and  purples, 
cover  as  with  a  charitable  veil  all  the  ugly 
details  of  the  river  front;  the  skyline  be- 
comes darker,  as  if  cut  out  with  monster 
scissors;  the  sky  appears  more  resplendent 
and  luminous  with  gorgeous  tints,  until  the 


78     A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

fiery  blaze  slowly  dies  out,  and  bluish  tints, 
gray  and  purple  predominate;  and  then  the 
city  lights,  those  on  the  bridge  and  in  the 
Metropolitan  tower,  shimmer  like  innumer- 
able stars. 

Sometimes  with  a  clear  sky,  sometimes  in 
fog,  in  a  snow  storm,  in  rain  or  in  clear 
moonlight,  every  night  for  ten  months  I 
have  watched  an  ever  recurring  picturesque 
metamorphosis. 

Through  the  north  window  I  have 
watched  the  dawn  come  up  behind  the 
Queensboro  bridge,  and  seen  the  sun  appear 
like  an  enormous  Japanese  lantern  of  pure 
vermilion — a  sight  to  gladden  the  heart  of  a 
Claude  Monet. 

Boats  pass  constantly  by,  day  and  night; 
they  are  the  one  great  source  of  amusement 
of  the  patients.  The  little,  swift-sailing 
tug-boats  announce  their  passage  by  angry 
and  piercing  whistles;  the  graceful  yachts 
of  the  multi-^millionaires  sound  melodious 
notes;  the  large  excursion  boats  announce 


THE  HOSPITAL  79 

themselves  by  their  stronger  and  more  ring- 
ing whistlings ;  the  largest  ones,  on  their  way 
to  Portland,  are  heard  in  the  distance  gi-unt- 
ing  like  sonorous  leviathans. 

But  the  most  amusing  of  all  is  the  tiny 
boat  that  plies  between  the  dock  of  the 
penitentiary  and  the  foot  of  54!th  Street. 
The  distance  is  about  two  or  three  minutes, 
but  this  diminutive  craft  goes  two  or  three 
blocks  up  the  river  and  comes  back  down 
the  same  number  of  blocks,  to  show  that  if 
it  tried  it  really  could  navigate  on  the  high 
seas. 

Should  any  vessel  larger  than  this  micro- 
cosm be  seen  from  a  distance  trying  to  pass 
our  little  boat,  it  would  start  a  series  of  an- 
gry, piercing  toots,  repeated  in  quick  suc- 
cession. We  used  to  wonder  and  laugh — oh, 
we  laugh,  even  in  prison ;  how  else  could  we 
live? — at  the  impertinence  of  this  minnow 
of  the  river  of  New  York,  until  we  discov- 
ered that  after  a  large  boat  like  the  Yale 
passed  by,  the  waves  left  in  its  wake  almost 


80      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

upset  the  little  craft,  and  it  took  all  the  ef- 
forts of  the  brave  pilot  to  bring  it  tossing 
like  a  champagne  cork  on  top  of  the  waves, 
back  safe  to  the  dock. 

In  summer  time  the  excursion  boats,  re- 
turning home  with  crowded  decks,  with  all 
the  lights  lit,  and  the  band  playing  and  the 
passengers  singing,  "The  Island  of  Black- 
well,"  make  us  home-sick  and  pensive  with 
longing  for  life  and  the  world  we  are  shut 
away  from. 


Ill 


The  trusty  in  charge  of  the  hospital  is  get- 
ting nervous  as  the  day  of  his  release  ap- 
proaches. A  week  before  the  release,  no 
matter  how  disciplined  and  peaceful  the  pris- 
oner may  have  been,  he  starts  getting 
cranky  and  impertinent  to  the  keepers.  He 
acts  like  a  man  under  great  stress,  and  when 
he  is  disturbed  he  turns  savagely  round  like 
an  angry  dog. 


THE  HOSPITAL  81 

The  old  trusty  acted  like  a  drunkard,  talk- 
ing and  laughing  incessantly,  and  we 
thought  it  was  for  joy  at  the  thought  of  his 
near  release.  But  the  real  reason  was  soon 
discovered.  The  old  thief,  Fritz,  had  been 
operated  on,  and  when  the  night  orderly  was 
ordered  by  the  doctor  to  change  the  sick 
man's  bandages  every  fifteen  minutes,  he 
bribed  the  old  trusty  with  a  long  drink  of 
whiskey  to  do  the  work  for  him. 

The  spectacle  of  the  official  orderly  trying 
to  do  his  duty  was  intensely  amusing.  In 
all  the  years  of  his  work  he  had  slept  and 
snored  peacefully  and  undisturbed.  When 
the  time  came  to  change  the  bandages,  he 
uncovered  the  patient  and  began  gingerly 
removing  the  soaked  bandages,  holding  them 
with  two  fingers,  at  a  safe  distance,  and 
walking  on  tiptoe,  as  if  expecting  the  whole 
thing  to  explode.  When  he  saw  the  terrible, 
gaping  wound  he  dropped  everything  back, 
saying:  "I  can't  do  it,  it  makes  me  sick!" 
and  woke  up  the  trusty  to  do  the  work  for 


82      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

him.  The  next  day  he  reported  sick,  and 
he  never  showed  up  again  until  he  heard  that 
the  patient  was  dead. 

In  the  meanwliile  the  old  trusty  left  and  I 
had  to  attend  to  the  sick  man.  Every  fifteen 
minutes  of  twenty  interaiinable  days  and 
nights  I  had  to  watch,  and  nurse,  and  answer 
the  calls  of  that  cranky  old  man.  The 
wound  was  ghastly.  The  surgeons  had 
made  an  incision  twelve  inches  long  right 
down  into  the  bladder,  wherein  they  had 
stuck  a  thick  rubber  tube. 

The  sight  was  sickening,  the  work  ex- 
hausting and  thankless,  and  if  I  had  not 
known  that  the  patient  had  only  a  few  days 
to  live,  I  think  I  would  have  applied  for  a 
job  in  the  coal  gang. 

On  the  twentieth  night,  at  about  twelve 
o'clock,  I  was  awakened  by  the  moans  of 
the  dying  man,  who  was  calling  in  a  faint 
voice.  His  face  was  flushed  and  it  seemed 
as  if  all  the  blood  had  gone  to  his  head ;  but 


THE  HOSPITAL  83 

he  seemed  suddenly  to  turn  deadly  white, 
and  he  lay  back  still. 

A  young  boy  sleeping  next  to  him  hid  his 
head  under  the  bed  clothes  in  fright.  I  was 
sent  to  notify  the  doctor  upstairs. 

The  young  doctor  declared  him  dead,  and 
turning  to  me  ordered  me  to  dress  him. 

I  looked  at  him  puzzled  and  asked: 
"Dress  him  up  in  his  striped  suit?" 

"No,"  answered  the  doctor,  smiling,  "put 
the  shroud  on  and  make  him  ready  for  the 
morgue." 

"But  I  have  never  dressed  a  corpse  in  my 
life  and  would  not  know  how  to  go  about  it," 
I  protested.  So  the  doctor  kindly  volun- 
teered to  teach  me. 

First  he  closed  the  dead  man's  eyes ;  then 
we  put  on  the  shroud,  which  looked  like  a 
night-shirt  with  frills  at  the  sleeves,  and 
attached  to  it  a  conical  fool's  cap  to  cover 
his  head;  then  his  hands  and  feet  were  tied 
separately. 

When  we  had  done,  we  laid  the  body  on 


84      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

an  empty  bed  in  the  smaller  hospital,  very 
much  to  the  dismay  and  terror  of  the  three 
consumptives  who  slept  there.  But  they 
kicked  up  such  a  row  that  they  were  allowed 
to  sleep  in  our  section. 

The  next  morning  when  I  went  on  an  er- 
rand into  the  next  room  I  stopped  to  gaze 
on  the  body  of  Fritz.  The  change  that  had 
taken  place  was  startling.  During  the  few 
months  that  Fritz  had  passed  in  the  hospital, 
although  disciplined  and  silent  like  most  old 
convicts,  he  always  wore  a  peculiarly  shifty, 
sneering  expression  on  his  reddish  face. 
Now  it  was  wax  white,  the  eyelids  had 
opened,  and  the  pale  blue  eyes  were  staring 
at  me  with  a  peaceful,  angelic  expression. 
For  an  instant  I  gasped  at  the  thought  that 
he  might  have  come  back  to  life,  and  I  called 
out:  "Fritz!  Fritz!"  but  no  answer  came, 
and  only  the  gentle,  inscrutable  smile  per- 
sisted. I  touched  his  cheek.  It  was  cold 
and  hard.  But  I  could  not  explain  the  al- 
most miraculous  change  in  the  expression  of 


THE  HOSPITAL  85 

the  face.  Suddenly  it  da\Mied  upon  me  that 
death  had  released  the  unclean  spirit,  and 
left  the  body  to  go  back  to  mother  earth  as 
clean  as  it  had  been  conceived. 

Soon  four  convicts  came  into  the  room; 
one,  a  gangster,  with  a  broken  nose,  and 
beady,  black  eyes,  asked  me:  "Where  is 
the  stiff?"  As  in  prison  language  "stiff" 
is  also  the  name  used  for  newspapers,  I 
looked  at  him  foolishly  and  answered  that 
I  had  none.  He  added  in  explanation :  "I 
mean  the  guy  that  croaked  last  night." 

Neither  the  keeper  nor  the  convicts  rel- 
ished the  post-prandial  funeral.  .  .  .  Death 
had  come  so  suddenly  and  inforaially,  and 
had  left  his  victim  in  the  enemy's  camp,  to 
be  carried  to  the  morgue,  and  later  to  be 
buried  on  a  convict's  island  without  benefit 
of  clergy. 

IV 

Before  the  old  thief  died  the  old  trusty 
had  gone,  and  I  had  to  take  his  place.    I  did 


86      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

so  only  with  great  reluctance,  and  with 
many  misgivings  as  to  my  peace  of  mind 
and  body. 

I  had  noticed  how  the  convicts  nagged 
and  harassed  the  old  trusty  with  insults  and 
petty,  malicious  persecutions  to  revenge 
themselves  for  his  greed  and  his  authorita- 
tive, arrogant  manner  towards  them. 

I  realized  that  life  might  be  made  unbear- 
able for  me,  and  that  I  might  be  forced  to  go 
downstairs  to  the  cells  before  I  had  com- 
pleted my  cure. 

When  the  old  trusty  received  fruit  he  had 
sold  it  promptly  to  the  convicts  for  money. 
He  asked  five  cents  for  an  apple,  ten  cents 
for  an  orange,  so  much  for  tobacco  or  for  a 
pipe,  another  price  for  suspenders,  handker- 
chiefs, or  whatever  he  might  have  to  sell  or 
barter. 

After  his  release  the  Italian  consumptive 
said  that  he  had  got  only  half  portions  of  his 
special  food  that  had  been  sent  in  for  him, 


THE  HOSPITAL  87 

as  the  trusty  cut  the  portions  in  half  in  order 
to  sell  the  remainder  to  others. 

I  unconsciously  sensed  that  the  only  suc- 
cessful method  of  taming  the  ferocious,  re- 
vengeful natures  of  the  convicts  was  by 
kindness  and  patience;  by  treating  them  as 
friends  in  misfortune,  and  not  as  enemies  or 
inferiors. 

When  I  received  tobacco  or  fruit  I  divided 
it  among  the  men  who  seldom  if  ever  had 
any  visits  or  mail;  the  magazines  were  dis- 
tributed among  them  and  later  were  carried 
downstairs  from  cell  to  cell,  until  the  whole 
prison  had  read  them.  To  my  intense  sur- 
prise, English,  German,  Italian — even 
"high  brow"  magazines  like  the  Mercure  de 
France  and  La  Revue  were  eagerly  de- 
manded and  read  by  some  of  these  strangely 
intellectual  convicts. 

The  men  who  had  considered  me  an  aristo- 
crat, and  nicknamed  me  "The  Count,"  soon 
began  to  discover  that  my  sympathy  was  for 
their  troubles,  their  unhappiness,  their  help- 


88      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

lessness,  and  not  for  the  warden  and  the 
keepers. 

I  was  fully  repaid  for  my  attitude.  I  was 
made  their  confidant,  their  confessor,  the 
judge  of  their  squabbles,  a  peacemaker  and 
a  go-between ;  when  trouble  and  punishment 
were  in  sight,  when  some  particularly  un- 
clean and  revolting  duty  was  to  be  per- 
formed, the  convicts  always  asked  to  relieve 
me  of  it;  and  it  came  to  pass  that  after  a 
while  I  could  devote  most  of  my  time  to 
reading,  and  only  attended  to  the  less  man- 
ual work,  such  as  acting  as  assistant  to  the 
doctor. 

Among  the  patients  there  was  a  one- 
legged  negro  who  was  suffering  from  a  pain- 
ful and  unmentionable  disease.  His  big 
lips,  square  jaw  and  scowling  countenance 
made  him  resemble  a  big,  black  bull-dog. 
Even  the  keepers  were  in  awe  of  him.  In 
a  fit  of  anger  one  day  before  the  old  tinasty 
left  he  very  nearly  smashed  the  old  man's 
skull  with  his  crutch. 


THE  HOSPITAL  89 

The  fii'st  morning  that  I  was  left  in  charge 
of  the  hospital  I  felt  some  trepidation  as  to 
the  outcome  of  my  policy  of  kindness. 

The  test  came  quickly.  During  lunch  the 
negro  ordered  me,  in  a  loud,  angry  voice, 
to  bring  him  something.  I  went  over  to  his 
bed  and  told  him  gently  I  was  surprised  that 
he  had  forgotten  his  good  manners;  that 
he  had  evidently  made  a  mistake  in  thinking 
that  I  was  either  his  keeper  or  his  valet; 
that  we  were  both  convicts,  both  in  trouble, 
and  should  treat  each  other  like  self-respect- 
ing men,  helpfully  and  considerately. 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  frown  on  his  face, 
as  he  was  not  quite  certain  whether  I  was 
deriding  him;  but  soon  the  frown  disap- 
peared, and  then  I  said  to  him:  "Now, 
Davis,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  He  an- 
swered in  a  gentle  and  friendly  voice :  "Ex- 
cuse me,  mister.  I  always  been  treated  like 
a  dog.    Will  you  please  bring  me  a  spoon?" 

From  that  day  on  he  was  tamed;  he  be- 
came more  talkative,  and  even  polite.    Dur- 


90      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

ing  the  long  winter  evenings  he  broke  the 
morose  silences  to  tell  us  of  his  adventures, 
and  to  relate  the  story  of  his  tragic  and  ter- 
rible life. 

He  had  lost  his  leg  in  a  railroad  accident ; 
and  then  he  had  spent  several  years  in  hos- 
pitals and  more  years  in  legal  fights  to  try 
to  collect  a  few  hundred  dollars  which  were 
never  paid.  Then,  jobless,  hungry,  desti- 
tute, desperate,  he  had  begun  to  steal.  Al- 
ways unlucky  and  awkward,  he  was  invari- 
ably caught,  arrested,  and  sentenced  to  jail. 
Twenty  years  of  his  life  he  had  spent  in 
jails  and  prisons  all  over  the  country,  and 
he  had  even  had  a  taste  of  the  horrible  chain 
gangs  of  Georgia.  He  described  the  pun- 
ishments he  had  to  undergo  because  of  his 
inability  to  work  in  prison  shops ;  the  weeks 
passed  in  the  "coolers";  the  beatings,  the 
tortures  he  had  undergone  at  the  hands  of 
savage,  ruthless  wardens. 

It  was  an  awful,  an  almost  incredible 
story!    It  seemed  somehow  impossible  that 


THE  HOSPITAL  91 

a  human  being  could  go  through  such  an 
ordeal,  such  harrowing  brutalities,  and  come 
out  alive  and  tell  the  story. 

One  day  he  said,  "I  ain't  no  good  since 
my  accident.  Never  had  a  chance  to  learn 
a  trade  or  be  honest.  If  I  don't  come  across 
to  the  'bulls'  they  send  me  back  to  the  'pen' 
for  a  year.  I'm  sick  of  this  life.  Next  time 
I'll  do  something  that'll  send  me  to  Sing 
Sing  for  life.  This  dump  is  rotten.  I'd 
rather  go  up  the  river  for  two  years  than 
stay  in  here  for  six  months." 


The  orderly  asks  me  to  attend  to  the 
consiunptive,  as  he  hates  to  do  it  himself.  I 
have  to  bring  him  his  food,  I  have  to  clean 
the  cup  which  he  uses  as  a  cuspidor,  and  be 
careful  to  wash  it  in  a  solution  of  carbolic 
acid,  and  wash  my  hands  each  time  after- 
wards. 


92      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

The  poor  boy  flies  into  uncontrollable  fits 
of  anger  over  trifles;  then  his  face  becomes 
almost  a  livid  green,  and  he  seems  to  be 
foaming  at  the  mouth — little  flecks  of  foam 
and  saliva — like  a  vicious  horned  toad. 
When  in  that  state  I  usually  speak  to  him  in 
a  low,  monotonous  voice,  hoping  to  quiet 
him;  and  after  a  while  he  becomes  calmer, 
his  features  relax,  his  body  slowly  unbends, 
and  he  finaUy  slips  under  the  bed  sheets, 
going  to  sleep  as  if  the  effort  had  completely 
exhausted  him. 

It  used  to  remind  me  of  the  snake  charm- 
ers in  India,  taming  angry  and  hissing 
cobras  by  the  monotonous  sound  of  a  flute. 
Suddenly  the  hoods  would  fold,  the  terrible 
fanged  mouths  close,  and  the  snakes  would 
wag  their  heads  slowly  to  and  fro,  with  little 
red  tongues  playfully  wiggling  in  sign  of  de- 
light until  placed,  harmless  and  hypnotized, 
in  a  capacious  basket. 

I  do  not  know  if  it  was  my  arguments  or 
my  voice  that  attained  the  object  with  my 


THE  HOSPITAL  93 

consumptive  patient,  but  the  result  was  evi- 
dent after  I  had  talked  to  the  poor  boy  for 
a  few  minutes. 

In  great  excitement  he  confessed  to  me 
one  morning  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  commit  suicide  if  his  fine  was  not  remit- 
ted, and  he  was  not  released  after  his  one 
year  term.  I  told  the  Sister  of  Mercy  of 
his  threat  and  she  promised  to  see  to  it  that 
the  judge  would  remit  the  fine.  When  the 
day  of  his  release  came,  much  to  my  relief, 
he  was  freed. 

I  have  reached  some  interesting  conclu- 
sions as  a  result  of  my  observations  of  the 
ways  of  the  convicts  and  their  attitudes  to- 
wards one  another. 

Life  in  a  prison,  under  ignorant  and  often 
vicious  wardens  and  keepers,  although  seem- 
ingly leveling  the  men's  standard  to  the 
most  degrading  and  contemptible  measure 
allowed  by  law,  does  not  eradicate  the  con- 
vict's idea  of  class.    A  class,  or  perhaps  it 


94      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

would  be  better  to  say  a  caste  system,  exists 
here,  as  in  all  the  jails  all  over  the  world, 
as  well  and  as  subtly  graded  as  social 
life  in  Manhattan,  London,  or  Benares. 

The  Camorra,  of  Naples,  originated  in 
the  jails  of  the  old  kingdom  of  Naples  dur- 
ing the  rule  of  the  Spaniards  and  Bourbons, 
being  invented  by  the  convicts  to  protect 
themselves  against  the  greed  of  the  prison 
authorities.  Later  it  branched  out  and  was 
organized  outside.  The  same  holds  true  in 
America,  in  the  sense  that  convicts  in  prison 
plot  and  plan  crimes  before  their  release, 
and  agree  to  continue  their  acquaintance  and 
work  on  the  outside.  Boys  and  young  men 
serving  their  first  term  are  easy  prey  for 
older  and  wiser  criminals. 

Although  the  ideas  of  caste  in  prison  are 
not  the  same,  and  are  not  formulated  accord- 
ing to  religious,  financial,  intellectual  or 
aristocratic  standards,  nevertheless  the  prin- 
ciple  is  the  same.  In  most  societies  the  lead- 
ers are  people  with  "blood,"  money,  or  privi- 


THE  HOSPITAL  95 

leges  of  some  sort.  In  India  the  high  caste 
Braliniin  is  born  to  his  station,  and  no 
amount  of  money  or  intellectual  attainment 
can  make  one  if  he  is  not  born  to  it. 

In  prison  the  ethical  standard  is  as  simple 
as  the  cave  dweller's,  or  as  that  of  savage 
tribes.  Caste  among  convicts  is  a  sop  to 
their  vanity,  to  their  outraged  and  primitive 
sense  of  justice;  society  made  them  outcasts, 
and  they  retaliate  by  creating  a  society  of 
outcasts  wherein  they  strive  to  become  the 
leaders,  the  greatest,  the  bravest,  the  clever- 
est among  the  Pariahs ;  and  like  the  Pariahs 
they  consider  other  castes  outside  as  lower 
than  their  own. 

Convicts  admire  physical  prowess  and 
brute  strength,  fearlessness,  "nerve";  they 
look  up  to  those  who  commit  deeds  of  vio- 
lence, such  as  gang  men,  bandits,  burglars; 
men  who  will  take  their  chances  at  killing 
or  being  killed  rather  than  be  arrested. 

Next  to  these  in  the  order  of  caste  come 
the  more   intelligent   but   less    courageous 


96      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

types  of  crooks,  such  as  confidence  men, 
forgers,  gamblers,  dishonest  bankers,  em- 
bezzlers, lawyers,  politicians.  They  repre- 
sent the  intellectual  aristocracy  of  crime,  to 
be  approved  of  but  not  to  be  put  on  the  same 
plane  as  the  former. 

To  the  third  caste,  even  less  brave,  less 
cunning,  belong  the  sneak  thieves,  the  pick- 
pockets, repeaters,  bums;  marking  the  bor- 
der line  on  its  downward  course  with  such 
types  as  wife  beaters,  wandering  tramps, 
bums,  and  dope  fiends  who  steal  only  to 
satisfy  their  irresistible  cravings  for  drugs. 
Those  individuals  who  live  on  white  slavery, 
professional  degenerates,  and  their  like,  are 
ridiculed  and  nagged  by  the  upper  castes; 
the  effeminate  "sissies"  are  also  a  constant 
butt  for  the  jests  and  abuse  not  only  of  con- 
victs, but  of  keepers  as  well. 

On  the  lowest  rung  of  the  social  ladder 
stand  the  stool  pigeons  and  the  detectives 
who  are  so  unlucky  as  to  be  sent  to  prison. 
These   latter   are   hated,    abominated,   de- 


THE  HOSPITAL  97 

spised,  by  their  fellow  prisoners  with  all  the 
intensity,  ferocity,  and  implacable  hatred  of 
which  such  men  are  capable.  It  sometimes 
happens,  in  spite  of  the  vigilance  of  the 
keepers,  that  they  are  murdered  in  prison. 
In  the  minds  of  the  other  convicts  these  stool 
pigeons  and  detectives  are  their  most  dan- 
gerous foes,  because  of  the  intimate  knowl- 
edge they  possess  of  the  technique  of  crime, 
and  because  of  the  similarity  of  their  ways 
of  living. 

VI 

The  one-legged,  bull-faced  negro  in  the 
hospital  was  watching  my  assistant,  who,  of 
his  own  volition,  and  without  being  ordered 
to  do  it,  was  laboriously  polishing  the  brass 
cliandeliers  hanging  from  the  ceiling. 

"That  bov  ain't  no  thief,"  he  remarked 
philosophically.  "A  thief  is  a  thief  'cause 
he  won't  work,  in  or  out  of  jail." 

A  crook  will  waste  many  days,  nay,  some- 
times weeks  and  months,  and  take  infinite 


98      A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

pains  to  plan  a  robbery,  the  result  of  which 
he  imagines  is  getting  something  for  noth- 
ing. Sometimes  the  prize  is  nothing,  some- 
times it  is  considerable;  and  then  it  is  dis- 
sipated in  gambling,  dope,  and  riotous  liv- 
ing. The  fruit  of  legitimate  work  he  con- 
siders a  meagre  result  of  foolish  painstak- 
ing effort. 

The  mental  calibre  of  these  men  is  similar 
to  that  of  naughty,  precocious  children,  or 
of  savages ;  they  have  streaks  of  yellow  and 
streaks  of  insanity;  they  often  have  a  strong 
will,  but  no  morality;  a  keen  intelligence, 
but  no  principle ;  a  purpose,  but  no  good  or 
high-minded  ambition.  Almost  without  ex- 
ception they  are  gamblers ;  they  lack  imag- 
ination, but  they  are  possessed  of  an  over- 
weening, childish  vanity;  they  have  great 
stubbornnesses,  but  no  sense  of  proportion 
or  responsibility. 

Their  ideals  are  wholly  physical;  they  love 
fine  clothes,  jewelry,  good  food;  they  admire 
the  fair  sex,  they  crave  money  for  all  the 


THE  HOSPITAL  99 

physical  results  it  will  bring.  They  are  very 
proud  of  their  criminal  successes,  of  their 
reputations  as  "tough  guys,"  bad  men  with 
terrible  records,  fierce  and  relentless  in  their 
loathing  for  "squealers"  and  "bulls." 

They  consider  their  gallery  of  Immortals 
as  unique,  and  never  sufficiently  appreciated 
by  those  outside  their  world  of  life. 

A  complete  lack  of  imagination  prevents 
them  from  foreseeing  the  futility  and  the 
inevitable  result  of  their  lonesome  battle 
against  the  united  forces  of  society. 

An  almost  unanimous  characteristic  is 
their  cheap  sentimentality,  but  at  bottom 
they  are  nearly  always  kind  hearted.  They 
have,  too,  a  keen  sense  of  justice,  and  often 
they  are  willing  to  admit  that  they  deserve 
their  punishment;  but  they  rebel  savagely 
against  the  injustices,  the  inhuman  treat- 
ment, the  tortures,  inflicted  by  prison  au- 
thorities. It  is  the  helplessness  of  these  pris- 
oners, and  the  in(hfference  of  the  public  to- 
wards them  and  their  fate,  that  make  prison 


100    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

authorities  so  cowardly  and  brutal.  A 
healthy  publicity  in  prison  matters,  and  a 
more  charitable  and  sympathetic  attitude 
on  the  part  of  the  public,  would  very  soon 
change  the  attitude  of  the  wardens  and  the 
keepers. 


VII 


In  the  beginning  the  reticence  of  the  con- 
victs puzzled  me,  even  after  I  knew  that  they 
regarded  me  as  a  political  prisoner  and  not 
as  a  stool  pigeon.  Only  after  a  long  ac- 
quaintance, and  then  unwillingly,  would 
they  admit  shamefacedly  that  their  living 
was  acquired  by  criminal  methods.  IMore 
than  any  other  argument  this  proved  to  me 
that  their  criminal  pride  is  only  a  bluff, 
their  pose  as  "tough  guys"  only  a  pretence, 
and  the  supposed  excitement  of  their  pro- 
fession only  a  misdirected  and  false  energy. 
Their  vainglorious,  strutting  behaviour  is 
really  the  result  of  the  insulting,  demoraliz- 


THE  HOSPITAL  101 

ing,  contemptuous  attitude  of  the  prison 
authorities,  which  seems  to  say:  "We  are 
virtuous  men ;  you  are  only  crooks  and  bums. 
We  are  paid  by  the  authorities  and  the  state 
to  punish  you  and  to  break  your  spirit." 

The  convicts  beheve  that  few  of  the  keepers 
are  virtuous  or  honest  men,  and  the  constant 
revelations  of  prison  graft  only  arouse  their 
envy,  and  the  galling  thought  that  they  are 
the  helpless  victims  of  a  higher  type  of 
crooks.  In  seeming  self-defense,  therefore, 
they  assume  their  attitude  of  revenge  toward 
society,  of  stubbornness  and  pride  and  de- 
fiance toward  the  keepers.  They  soon  dis- 
cover, if  they  have  not  already  learned,  that 
humanity,  charity,  and  justice  are  not  to 
be  expected  from  their  oppressors ;  and  that 
our  justice  is  not  Christian,  nor  scientific  nor 
himian;  but  only  vindictive,  wasteful,  idiotic 
and  indeed  blind.  And  so  in  despair  these 
misguided  men  become  more  vicious,  hard- 
ened and  corrupt  than  they  were  before 
prison  took  a  hand  in  their  shaping. 


102    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

A  prison  term,  which  is  supposed  to  re- 
form them  and  to  break  their  wills,  is  only 
a  school  for  criminality,  a  higher  school  or 
university  for  the  underworld,  where  confi- 
dences are  exchanged,  new  alliances  are 
formed,  diseases  and  homosexual  habits  con- 
tracted. The  spirit  is  tempered  for  future 
criminal  records,  instead  of  being  broken, 
and  the  body  strengthened  for  coming  ex- 
cesses. 

The  line  of  convicts  which  upon  their  re- 
lease streams  out  of  our  prisons,  is  like  a 
large  sewer  emptying  its  filth  back  into  so- 
ciety; slowly  corrupting,  demoralizing  and 
polluting  everything  it  touches. 

The  stool  pigeons  are  feared  by  the  con- 
victs as  well  as  by  the  keepers.  They  keep 
the  warden  informed  of  the  mysterious  hap- 
penings among  the  prisoners,  and  the  illicit 
relations  between  the  keepers  and  the  con- 
victs. In  their  turn  the  stool  pigeons  are 
rewarded  with  privileges,  such  for  instance 


THE  HOSPITAL  103 

as  not  being  punished  for  infractions  of  the 
rules,  which  woukl  mean  the  terrible  "cooler" 
to  the  ordinary  convict.  The  wardens' 
greatest  fear  is  that  letters  written  by  con- 
victs relating  some  of  the  outrageous  occur- 
rences of  every  day  in  prison  may  reach  the 
columns  of  a  newspaper  and  bring  about 
unpleasant  notoriety,  and  even  a  more  dis- 
agreeable investigation. 

On  very  rare  occasions  some  angry  con- 
vict will  write  to  a  newspaper  relating  his 
unpleasant  experiences,  but  the  rule  is  that 
the  sooner  one  forgets  having  been  behind 
the  bars  the  better  it  is. 

A  prisoner  caught  sending  communica- 
tions to  the  outside  world  by  underground 
methods,  without  having  his  message  read 
by  the  office,  is  punished  with  a  few  days  in 
the  dreaded  "cooler." 

This  is  what  the  "cooler"  is :  The  convict 
is  divested  of  all  clothes  except  his  under- 
wear, and  he  is  then  taken  to  a  cell  which 
contains  only  a  bucket  and  a  wooden  plank 


104,  A  MODERN  PURGATORY* 

on  the  floor  as  a  place  of  rest  and  sleep.  THe 
cell  is  hermetically  closed  by  a  door  which 
keeps  out  all  light  and  air.  A  little  ventila- 
tion, just  enough  to  keep  him  from  suffoca- 
tion, comes  through  a  small  hole  in  the  wall. 
The  darkness  is  like  a  solid  mass;  it  is  so 
intense  that  the  prisoner  cannot  see  his  hand 
near  his  face.  Every  twenty-four  hours  the 
cell  is  opened  and  the  convict  is  given  a  thin 
slice  of  bread  and  about  a  thimble  full  of 
water,  just  enough  to  keep  him  alive.  This 
performance  is  repeated  according  to  the 
length  of  the  punishment,  that  is  to  say,  the 
door  is  opened  only  once  in  twenty-four 
hours,  to  permit  the  giving  of  food  and 
water  and  the  emptying  of  the  bucket, 
whether  the  prisoner  stays  in  that  awful 
place  one  day  or  twenty-one.  Many  pris- 
oners have  been  known  to  stay  in  the  cooler 
for  weeks  at  a  time. 

After  having  lived  in  complete  darkness 
for  a  long  time,  coming  out  into  broad  day- 
light causes  untold  agonies,  and  very  often 


THE  HOSPITAL  105 

has  tragic  effects  upon  the  eyes  and  eyesight 
of  the  prisoner;  usually  they  have  to  be 
sent  to  the  hospital  to  be  treated  for  inflam- 
mation of  the  eyes  or  for  partial  blindness. 
Men  kept  long  in  the  cooler  sometimes  be- 
come driveling  idiots;  others  go  violently 
insane  and  have  to  be  sent  to  INIatteawan  for 
life. 

The  punishments  are  all  inflicted  by  the 
warden,  on  the  word  of  a  stool  pigeon,  of  a 
keeper,  or  of  a  man  in  charge  of  the  work- 
shops who  seems  to  be  a  contractor  of  almost 
unlimited  power  in  the  prison,  second  only 
to  the  warden. 

VIII 

The  prison  authorities  are  not  supposed 
to  abuse,  vilify  or  use  blasphemous  language 
towards  the  prisoners ;  it  is  forbidden  under 
penalty  of  the  law. 

Of  course,  as  far  as  the  convict  is  con- 
cerned, such  a  law  or  rule  is  a  dead  letter. 


106  A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

Should  a  prisoner  protest  to  the  warden 
against  vilification  or  profanity,  he  would 
only  be  laughed  at;  and  should  he  insist  on 
making  his  complaint  to  the  prison  commis- 
sioner, his  letter  would  never  be  sent,  and 
his  persecution  would  begin  at  once. 

The  other  day  a  quarrel  broke  out  between 
two  prisoners.  A  keeper  tried  to  stop  it  by 
hitting  one  of  the  offenders  with  his  stick, 
and  at  the  same  time  calling  him  an  unmen- 
tionable name.  The  convict  retaliated  with 
a  punch  on  the  jaw  that  floored  the  keeper. 

The  convict  was  punished  with  two  days 
in  the  "cooler,"  but  the  offending  keeper  was 
not  reprimanded  by  the  warden.  And  when 
the  man  came  out  of  the  "cooler,"  the  doctor 
found  him  suffering  from  an  inflammation 
of  the  eyes  which  kept  him  in  the  hospital 
for  two  months. 

When  he  asked  for  writing  materials  he 
was  told  that  the  punishment  meted  out  to 
him  automatically  eliminated  all  the  privi- 
leges of  a  convict ;  and  he  was  not  permitted 


THE  HOSPITAL  107 

to  write  home  or  to  receive  visitors  for  two 
months.  The  electric  hght  in  his  cell  was 
cut  off  and  he  was  not  allowed  to  read  books 
or  magazines,  newspapers  being  always 
barred. 

In  the  beginning  of  my  stay  in  prison  the 
use  of  profane  language  was,  to  put  it 
mildly,  quite  prevalent;  but  it  became  rare 
soon  after  the  election  of  Mayor  Gaynor. 
Even  their  sticks  were  taken  away  from  the 
keepers  for  a  while.  And  it  was  discovered 
that  discipline  did  not  suffer  in  the  least 
from  the  lack  either  of  foul  language  or  the 
stick. 

IX 

The  food,  brought  up  by  a  convict  from 
the  keepers'  kitchen  to  the  hospital,  is  dis- 
tributed by  us  thrice  a  day,  on  a  long  table 
covered  by  white  linoleum  and  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

We  have  to  clean  the  bathroom  and  the 


108  A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

spittoons,  sweep  the  floor,  empty  the  gar- 
bage can,  get  the  ice,  make  the  beds,  give  the 
medicine,  take  the  temperatures,  mark  the 
charts,  help  the  doctor,  besides  giving  and 
receiving  the  laundry — in  short,  the  imme- 
diate and  dirty  work  of  the  hospital  is  in  our 
hands.  The  one  happy  hour  of  the  day  is  at 
nine  in  the  morning,  when  we  are  privileged 
to  empty  the  garbage  can  at  the  docks  on 
the  Brooklyn  side  or  go  to  a  nearby  oven  to 
burn  its  contents. 

For  a  few  minutes,  while  filling  a  pail 
with  water  from  the  river  to  wash  out  the 
empty  garbage  can,  we  watch  the  tug  boats, 
the  canal  boats,  passenger  boats  or  yachts 
pass  by,  and  the  people  on  board  always 
greet  us  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  or  a  merry 
shout.  But  never  have  the  passengers  of 
the  aristocratic  yachts  even  condescended  to 
look  at  us. 

No  matter  if  it  rains  or  snows,  or  if  fog 
hangs  over  the  whole  landscape,  the  few 
minutes  alone,  untrammelled  by  the  pres- 


THE  HOSPITAL  109 

ence  of  a  keeper  or  the  crisscross  pattern  of 
the  bars,  make  us  feel  as  if  we  were  really- 
free  men;  then  we  march  reluctantly  to- 
wards the  ice  house  to  the  big  chest  contain- 
ing the  supi^ly  of  ice  for  the  different  de- 
partments. The  ice  is  cut  and  put  into  the 
empty  and  clean  garbage  can.  When  there 
are  no  keepers  around  we  linger  to  talk  to 
the  "skin"  gang,  which  is  composed  of  a  few 
convicts  whose  duty  it  is  to  peel  potatoes, 
onions,  carrots  and  cabbage  for  the  kitchen. 

It  is  a  great  place  for  the  exchange  of 
news  of  the  day — of  the  gossip  of  new  ar- 
rivals, the  punishments,  the  petty  incidents 
or  the  headliners  of  the  most  important 
events,  the  opinions  of  the  convicts  about 
the  goodness  or  badness  of  the  keepers;  in 
short  it  is  a  sort  of  clearing  house  for  in- 
formation as  to  whatever  is  happening  in 
the  penitentiary. 

One  of  the  men  in  charge  of  the  gang  is 
a  blond,  powerful,  fine-looking  convict  of 
German   parentage.      He    belongs   to   the 


110  A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

high  caste  among  the  prisoners,  and  shows 
it  by  his  manner  toward  the  lesser  castes. 

In  the  beginning  he  answered  my  ques- 
tions in  monosyllables,  but  after  several 
months  of  daily  intercourse,  when  he  had 
thoroughly  satisfied  himself  of  my  status, 
my  attitude,  and  my  antecedents,  and  when 
he  learned  that  I  was  an  aristocrat  only  in 
thought  but  a  democrat  in  manners,  he  be- 
came talkative,  and  piece  by  piece,  incident 
by  incident,  he  told  me  of  his  life,  until  I 
was  able  to  construct  it  almost  as  a  whole. 

He  was  the  son  of  honest  parents,  who 
had  started  him  in  life  as  a  skilled  working- 
man.  He  lost  his  position  during  a  strike, 
and  one  of  his  children  died  of  starvation. 
Fearing  that  his  other  child  would  meet  a 
similar  fate,  and  seeing  no  prospect  of  an- 
other job,  he  started  on  his  career  as  a 
burglar.  Being  a  skilled  mechanic,  he  found 
it  easy  to  fashion  tools  for  his  trade,  which, 
as  he  claimed,  brought  immediate  and  satis- 
factory results. 


THE  HOSPITAL  111 


One  morning  as  a  young  convict  was 
walking  on  an  errand  toAvards  the  shops,  a 
letter  dropped  from  his  coat  onto  the 
ground  in  the  yard.  The  warden,  who  was 
walking  in  the  same  direction,  not  far  be- 
hind, picked  up  the  letter  and  shouted  to 
the  man  to  stop.  The  convict  turned  back 
and  appeared  confused  when  he  saw  the 
warden  with  his  letter  in  his  hands.  The 
warden  flayed  him  with  his  heavy  sarcasm, 
upbraided  him  for  violating  the  rules  about 
writing  letters,  and  leered  at  him  in  mali- 
cious anticipation  of  the  punishment  to 
come.  Finally  he  condescended  to  read  the 
letter,  so  as  to  fit  the  punishment  with  a  few 
quotations  from  the  letter. 

But  strange  to  relate,  after  he  had  read 
the  letter,  his  frown  disappeared,  and  with 
it  his  terrible  anger.  In  a  voice  which  had 
turned  from  a  broken  falsetto  of  anger  to  a 
gentle,   low  pitch,   he   inquired  where  the 


112  A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

young  man  was  working,  how  many  more 
months  he  had  yet  to  serve,  and  finally  asked 
if  he  had  a  preference  for  any  other  place 
besides  his  present  assignment.  The  young 
convict  reluctantly  admitted  that  he  would 
prefer  to  work  in  the  keeper's  kitchen. 

The  same  day  he  was  transferred  to  his 
new  duties,  which  are  considered  privileged 
by  convicts  because  of  the  liberty  and  the 
better  food  they  afford.  The  young  convict, 
being  disgusted  with  the  prison  fare,  and 
the  monotonous,  unhealthy  work  in  his  shop, 
with  a  cunning  almost  Machiavellian,  had 
hit  upon  the  original  and  brilliant  idea  of 
writing  a  letter  to  an  imaginary  friend  in 
which  he  praised  the  penitentiary  and  lauded 
the  warden  in  fulsome,  enthusiastic,  un- 
stinted praise.  He  dropped  the  letter  pur- 
posely, knowing  that  the  warden  was  only  a 
few  paces  behind  him.  The  acting  was  done 
to  perfection,  the  trick  worked  without 
a  hitch,  and  our  youthful  Ulysses  got  his  job 
for  a  laudatory  song. 


THE  HOSPITAL  113 

The  tale  went  round  the  prison,  and  al- 
though it  made  the  warden  the  laughing 
stock  of  the  penitentiary,  he  never  discovered 
the  deception. 

The  warden,  unlike  the  deputy  warden,  is 
very  much  disliked  by  the  convicts.  Among 
themselves  they  call  him  the  "old  hyena." 
Convicts  as  well  as  visitors  all  seem  to  be 
united  in  accusing  him  of  brutality,  coarse- 
ness, and  intemperance  of  speech.  Visitors 
who  have  to  support  themselves  with  their 
daily  work  find  that  all  kinds  of  difficulties 
are  put  in  their  way.  They  have  to  get  a 
card  at  the  commissioner's  office  at  20th 
Street,  then  they  must  take  a  special  boat, 
and  when  they  arrive  at  the  prison  they  are 
forced  to  wait  an  hour  before  they  are 
searched. 

Thus  nearly  a  whole  day,  from  nine  in 
the  morning  till  two  in  the  afternoon,  is 
given  just  to  see  the  object  of  all  the  trouble, 
and  then,  separated  by  a  thick  screen  of 
wire,  they  are  allowed  only  fifteen  minutes. 


114  A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

Under  the  rules  visitors  are  permitted 
only  once  a  month,  but  twice  by  a  card  from 
the  prison  commissioner. 


XI 

One  day  a  poor  Italian  woman,  after  over- 
coming all  the  difficulties  in  actually  getting 
to  the  gates  of  the  prison,  happened  to  ar- 
rive a  few  minutes  late.  The  iron  gates  were 
banged  in  her  face  and  she  was  ordered 
away. 

She  had  come  a  long  way  to  see  her  son, 
and  she  could  not  tear  herself  away  from  the 
neighborhood  of  the  prison.  She  was  poorly 
dressed,  without  even  a  hat.  Tears  were 
streaming  down  her  cheeks.  In  her  ig- 
norance she  looked  up  to  the  barred  windows 
of  our  hospital  imagining  that  it  contained 
her  son.  She  waved  her  hand,  smiling 
through  her  tears,  hoping — perhaps  think- 
ing— that  she  could  communicate  to  him  that 
little,  distant  greeting.    Then  a  keeper  came 


THE  HOSPITAL  115 

out,  shook  a  stick  at  her  and  ordered  her 
away. 

She  went  back  to  the  docks  and  onto  the 
little  boat  that  was  to  carry  her  back  to  New 
York.  As  the  boat  moved  away  she  con- 
tinued to  wave  a  red  bandanna  handkerchief 
until  she  disappeared  from  view. 

Miss  M came  to  see  me  one  day  but 

she  was  refused  admittance  because  I  had 
had  another  visitor  in  the  same  month.  The 
warden  asked  her:  "What  do  you  want  to 
see  him  for?     Are  you  his  wife?"     "No," 

answered  Miss  M ,  "I  wouldn't  visit  him 

if  he  was  my  husband." 

The  warden  is  very  punctilious  and  severe 
towards  infractions  of  the  rules  relating  to 
visits  and  visitors.  His  strict  regard  for 
the  rules,  however,  did  not  deter  him  from 
allowing  two  detectives,  sent  by  agents  of 
the  Mexican  government,  to  visit  me  with- 
out my  permission;  he  even  placed  another 
detective  on  the  line  next  to  another  visitor 
so  that  he  could  overhear  our  conversation. 


116   A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

I  had  written  to  a  friend  that,  as  it  was 
not  only  unwise,  but  impossible  in  my  situa- 
tion to  put  on  paper  certain  matters  of  im- 
portance and  of  grave  concern  to  me,  I 
would  wait  for  the  day  of  his  visit  to  com- 
municate it  orally. 

On  that  day  a  red-headed  detective  was 
placed  next  in  line  to  my  visitor,  ostensibly 
to  talk  to  a  convict ;  but  the  prisoner  told  me 
afterwards  that  he  did  not  know  the  alleged 
visitor  and  that  he  had  never  seen  him  be- 
fore. 

I  had  to  whisper  my  message  in  French  so 
as  to  prevent  the  spy  from  overhearing  and 
understanding  it. 

This  proved  to  me  that  my  letters  were 
copied  by  somebody  in  the  warden's  office, 
and  communicated  to  the  American  lawyers 
representing  the  Mexican  government;  and 
also  that  somebody  was  powerful  enough 
politically  to  give  orders  in  the  Commission- 
er's office,  which  in  its  turn  placed  the  detec- 
tive at  my  visitor's  side. 


THE  HOSPITAL  117 

But  when  two  newspaper  men  asked  per- 
mission to  see  me  I  was  informed  that  I 
would  not  be  permitted  to  stay  in  the  hos- 
pital if  I  allowed  reporters  to  visit  me. 

One  day  I  heard  the  warden  upbraid  a 
girl  who  had  come  for  the  first  time  to  see 
her  brother.  Not  being  used  to  such  ill- 
mannered  treatment  she  began  to  weep,  and 
that  of  course  only  made  matters  worse. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Commissioner  of 
Prisons  arrived  on  a  visit  of  inspection.  In 
the  hospital  he  called  the  warden  to  task  for 
something — but  the  warden  was  as  mute  as 
an  oyster.  Together  they  went  into  the  con- 
sumptive ward,  where  the  warden  began  ex- 
tolling the  quality  and  quantity  of  the  fresh 
air  circulating  in  the  room.  The  commis- 
sioner turned  round  and  snapped  impa- 
tiently: "And  that's  about  all  they  ever 
get!"  But  the  warden  never  said  a  word. 
This  man,  this  mighty  czar  of  the  peniten- 
tiary, who  is  so  brutal  and  so  insolent  to 
the  convicts,  so  arrogant  to  the  keepers,  and 


118   A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

so  uncouth  to  the  visitors,  in  the  presence  of 
the  man  who  could  take  his  good  job  away 
from  him,  was  as  meek  as  a  lamb. 

A  keeper  who  knew  the  warden  well  re- 
marked :  "He  has  the  soul  of  a  valet,  insult- 
ing to  his  inferiors  and  fawning  to  his  su- 
periors." 

XII 

About  a  dozen  women  convicts  come  twice 
a  week  to  scrub  the  hardwood  floor  of  the 
hospital.  The  majority  of  them  are  colored ; 
the  white  women  are  either  old  and  faded, 
or  young  and  dissipated-looking.  Very  few 
of  them  are  either  refined  or  good-looking. 
Petty  larceny  is  the  crime  for  which  most  of 
them  are  sent  to  the  prison. 

Two  negro  women,  young  and  rather 
tough-looking,  are  scrubbing  the  floor. 
They  are  in  prison  for  having  held  up  and 
robbed  a  man  in  the  streets  of  New  York. 
The  man  never  recovered  his  $800. 


THE  HOSPITAL  119 

As  the  convicts  always  attempt  to  joke 
and  to  flirt  with  the  scrubbing  women,  they 
are  usually  ordered  into  the  bathroom  until 
the  work  is  done,  with  the  exception  of  the 
bedridden  patients. 

I  discovered  that  quite  a  correspondence 
goes  on  between  the  men  and  women  con- 
victs. A  young  convict  became  quite  enam- 
ored of  a  blonde,  sporty-looking  girl,  and 
they  took  great  risks  to  conmiunicate  their 
love  notes.  I  was  made  the  confidante  in 
their  love  affair.  Some  of  the  passages  read 
thus:  "I  love  you,  I  love  you,  where  did 
youse  put  the  tobacco?"  ...  "I  dreams  of 
you  day  and  night.  .  .  .  Get  me  some  but- 
ter." ,  .  .  "You  was  the  best  looker  I  ever 
seen.  .  .  .  Don't  forget  to  put  the  matches 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs." 

The  women  do  not  get  the  weekly  ration 
of  tobacco  allowed  to  the  men,  and  as  a  con- 
sequence they  must  beg  tobacco  and  matches 
from  the  men. 

All  the  house  work,  such  as  making  beds, 


120   A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

sweeping,  cooking  and  waiting  on  table,  in 
the  house  of  the  warden,  in  the  apartment  of 
the  deputy  warden,  and  in  the  dormitories  of 
the  keepers  and  matrons,  is  performed  by  the 
women  convicts. 

An  old  Irish  woman  while  in  prison  took 
such  loving  care  of  the  children  of  a  former 
warden  that  whenever  her  time  was  up  and 
she  was  discharged,  her  weakness  was  en- 
couraged, and  she  was  even  purposely  made 
drunk,  then  arrested  and  sentenced  to  the 
penitentiary  again  as  an  old  offender,  year 
after  year,  until  the  children  of  the  warden 
grew  big  enough  to  take  care  of  themselves. 

Before  the  present  system  of  having  a 
physician  live  in  the  prison  came  into  vogue, 
doctors  visited  the  patients  once  a  day;  the 
surgeons  came  over  only  for  the  operations. 
The  operating  room  is  always  shown  with 
great  pride  to  visitors,  but  never  the 
"cooler." 

'Twas  told  that  one  night,  in  the  earlier 
period,  when  there  was  no  resident  physician. 


THE  HOSPITAL  121 

a  woman  convict  startled  the  prison  with 
piercing  cries.  She  was  in  the  throes  of 
child-birth.  The  doctor  and  the  warden  be- 
ing absent,  the  matrons  did  not  dare  to  open 
the  cell.  Later  a  young  doctor  from  the  city 
hospital  was  called  in.  He  peered  through 
the  bars,  then  turned  and  declared  that  the 
woman  would  be  all  right  in  the  morning. 
When  the  cell  door  was  opened  next  day  the 
woman  was  found  unconscious  and  the  child 
was  dead,  strangled  or  suffocated. 

The  other  day  I  went  for  the  first  time 
into  the  women's  section  to  take  some  medi- 
cines and  carry  away  our  laundiy.  The 
women's  section  is  under  the  same  roof  as 
the  old  prison  wherein  I  passed  the  first  two 
nights.  A  wall  divides  them,  but  the  cells 
and  the  system  of  tiers  are  the  same. 

The  cells  measure  about  3  by  7  feet,  with 
gi-ay,  damp,  greasy,  massive  walls,  without 
any  ventilation. 

As  I  was  looking  around  I  noticed  manj^ 
women  sitting  in  their  cells,  some  working 


122  A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

outside,  sewing  or  knitting,  others  sweep- 
ing or  mopping  the  tiers  or  the  floor. 

JNIy  attention  was  attracted  by  two  wo- 
men with  babies  in  their  arms.  A  third,  a 
young,  quite  delicate,  fine-looking  girl  con- 
vict, was  sitting  on  a  chair  sewing.  Near 
her,  as  if  afraid  to  move,  stood  a  little  girl 
three  or  four  years  old,  with  dark,  curly  hair, 
red  cheeks,  and  big,  black  serious  eyes.  She 
looked  at  me  with  the  sad,  wistful  smile  of 
some  of  Da  Vinci's  women. 

My  imagination  carried  me  back  to  the 
trial  room  where  the  little  girl  had  stood 
near  her  mother  to  hear  the  sentence;  I 
thought  of  how  she  had  shared  with  her  the 
cell  in  the  Tombs ;  how  she  had  been  carried 
to  the  penitentiary  in  the  "Black  Maria," 
with  her  mother  shackled  to  another  convict ; 
how  every  night  she  slept  in  the  narrow, 
dark,  foul  cell,  barred  and  locked;  how  she 
ate  the  prison  food,  and  remained  all  day 
behind  gray  walls,  without  seeing  the  sun 


THE  HOSPITAL  123 

or  the  sky  or  any  flowers — only  striped  con- 
victs, matrons  and  steel  bars. 

The  innocent  child  must  have  seen  all 
these  strange  happenings,  and  wondered 
what  it  all  meant.  And  some  day,  when  she 
is  grown  to  womanhood,  or  motherhood,  she 
will  remember  it  all,  she  will  know  that  she 
lived  with  her  mother  in  a  prison.  She  will 
recall  the  infamy,  the  degradation — and  the 
shame  of  it  will  be  branded  on  her  soul  as 
long  as  she  lives. 

XIII 

Never  a  month  passes  but  some  convict 
is  brought  up  to  the  hospital  to  be  kept  un- 
der observation  to  determine  whether  he  is 
insane  or  faking  insanity. 

The  warden  and  the  keepers  always  sus- 
pect prisoners  of  faking  sickness  or  feign- 
ing insanity.  As  a  rule  the  convicts  do  not 
like  to  stay  very  long  in  the  hospital,  as  they 
are  not  allowed  to  smoke,  and  the  time  is 


124  A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

very  slow  and  tedious  without  any  kind  of 
work. 

A  small,  stocky,  bearded,  wild-looking 
Italian  was  brought  over  from  the  Tombs 
before  his  trial.  He  would  not  touch  food, 
and  the  Tombs  keepers  were  afraid  that  he 
might  die  on  their  hands. 

It  took  six  men  and  one  doctor,  sitting  on 
his  arms,  legs  and  stomach,  to  feed  him  a 
glass  of  milk  by  a  rubber  tube  through  his 
nostrils.  It  was  a  nauseating  performance, 
and  luckily  it  was  not  repeated. 

We  have  to  di'ess  and  undress  him  every 
morning  and  night.  About  six  o'clock  every 
morning  he  starts  walking  up  and  down 
from  the  bathroom  to  the  bay  window,  a 
distance  of  about  twenty-five  paces ;  and  he 
continues  it  all  day  long,  without  rest  or 
pause,  until  nine  o'clock  at  night.  Every 
fifteen  minutes  or  so  he  calls  out  in  a  sing- 
song, southern  dialect:  "Oh!  Giorgio  Wash- 
ington! Warden  of  this  great  prison !  My 
dear  wife!     My  beautiful  little  children!" 


THE  HOSPITAL  125 

And  then  he  looks  up  at  the  clock  and  adds : 
"And  the  Holy  Ghost  of  the  clock!" 

After  he  has  been  put  to  bed  he  covers 
his  head  with  the  bed  sheets,  but  every  hour 
he  sticks  his  head  out  and  like  a  cuckoo  bird 
in  a  Swiss  clock  he  repeats  his  monotonous 
story. 

Everybody  is  kept  awake,  the  patients  as 
well  as  the  keepers.  The  first  night  an  old 
keeper  who  was  on  watch  tried  to  hush  him 
up,  but  without  success;  so  he  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  bed  watching  for  the  moment 
when  the  man  would  uncover  his  head  again 
and  sing  out. 

We  waited  breathlessly,  looking  forward 
to  the  expected  minute.  Suddenly  the  head 
appeared  and  the  old  keeper  swiftly  hit  it  a 
stinging  whack  with  a  wet  towel,  which  cut 
the  "Giorgio  Washington"  in  two;  the  head 
went  right  back  under  the  bed  sheets  for  the 
rest  of  the  night. 

After  two  weeks  the  man  was  finally  sent 
back  to  the  Tombs.    Although  he  had  eaten 


126  A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

only  once  in  that  time,  it  took  half  a  dozen 
sturdy  men  to  dress  him  up  and  turn  him 
over  to  the  sheriff. 

Once  in  a  moment  of  lucidity  he  asked  me 
to  get  him  some  food,  for  which  he  was  will- 
ing to  pay.  Then  he  begged  me  to  write  to 
his  wife,  and  when  the  letter  was  written  and 
addressed,  he  became  mad  again  and  tore  it 
to  little  bits,  and  resumed  his  peripatetic, 
insane  round. 

A  young  Pole,  about  twenty-five  years 
old,  is  brought  over  from  the  workhouse. 
His  face  is  blue  and  his  lips  are  bleeding 
from  blows.  We  have  to  dress  and  undress 
him  also  like  a  child.  Whenever  food  is 
brought,  and  he  is  told  to  eat,  he  weeps; 
whenever  anybody  speaks  to  him  he  weeps ; 
and  he  whines  and  carries  on  like  a  fright- 
ened baby  in  a  strange  place.  He  has  the 
body  of  a  powerful  longshoreman  and  the 
mentality  of  a  new  born  baby. 

There  is  a  convict  here  afflicted  with  sui- 


THE  HOSPITAL  127 

cidal  mania.  Those  in  the  hospital  who  are 
not  insane  have  been  told  to  watch  him  and 
prevent  him  from  harming  himself.  He  is 
the  same  man  who  tried  to  drown  himself  by- 
jumping  into  the  river.  We  have  to  keep 
the  medicine  closet  locked  and  the  bread 
knife  hidden. 

One  night  he  waited  until  everybody  was 
asleep,  then,  sneaking  into  the  bathroom,  he 
took  a  bottle  of  medicine  which  had  been  left 
standing  on  top  of  the  ice  box,  and  gulped 
a  great  quantity  before  the  bottle  was  torn 
from  his  lips.  He  was  quite  sick  for  two 
days.  Luckily  the  bottle  only  contained 
"Cascara  Sagrada,"  a  powerful  cathartic. 

Another  time  he  tried  even  to  push  the 
razor  into  his  throat  while  a  convict  barber 
was  shaving  him.  And  yet,  every  time  the 
barred  door  is  locked  or  unlocked,  he  seems 
to  be  in  mortal  fear  that  somebody  is  com- 
ing to  shoot  him. 

The  other  evening  he  sat  near  me  while  I 
was  reading  and  suddenly  he  leaned  over 


128    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

and,  with  quivering  nostrils  and  in  a  hoarse 
terrified  whisper,  asked  me,  in  German,  if 
I  was  his  friend. 

"Certainly,"  I  answered.  "What  can  I 
do  for  you?" 

"They  are  going  to  shoot  me  to-night!"  he 
said.  "Get  me  the  bread  knife  so  that  I  can 
cut  my  throat,  or  some  poison  to  kill  my- 
self." 

I  tried  to  pacify  him,  but  he  was  in  a  state 
of  abject  terror.  So,  thinking  it  best  to  do 
so,  I  offered  him  what  he  imagined  to  be  poi- 
son. He  drank  it  quickly  and  with  great 
relish,  waiting  impatiently,  with  gleaming 
eyes  and  a  sickly,  malicious  grin,  for  the 
death  that  was  to  come.  But  death  did  not 
come ;  the  medicine  was  only  a  strong  dose  of 
salts.  This  second  cathartic  potion  cured 
him  effecti^^ely  of  his  suicidal  mania,  for 
thus  he  came  finally  to  the  conclusion  that 
all  the  alleged  poisons  in  the  hospital  were 
only  snares  and  delusions. 

After  a  few  months  two  men  with  papers 


THE  HOSPITAL  129 

came  over  from  the  asylum  of  Matteawan 
and  plied  him  with  questions,  his  answers 
to  which  one  of  the  men  wrote  down.  The 
poor  German  cobbler  was  scared  stiff,  an- 
swering the  queries  as  if  his  life  depended 
on  his  replies. 

Among  other  things,  he  was  asked  why  he 
had  jumped  into  the  river. 

"To  learn  shwimming,"  was  his  quick  re- 
tort. 

A^Tiile  we  were  getting  him  ready  to  be 
taken  to  the  insane  asylum  he  was  blubber- 
ing and  sputtering,  frightened  and  inarticu- 
late ;  and  the  tears  streamed  down  his  round, 
fat,  childish  face. 

XIV 

The  hospital  has  become  a  sort  of  ob- 
servatory for  the  insane.  But  all  the  con- 
victs who  show  signs  of  insanity  are  not 
brought  up  to  the  hospital. 

Confinement  in  the  cells  without  work  or 


130    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

exercise  from  Saturday  afternoon  to  Mon- 
day morning,  and  the  punishment  in  the 
"cooler,"  are  responsible  for  most  of  the 
cases  of  insanity. 

When  the  supposedly  insane  convicts  do 
not  try  to  commit  suicide,  or  do  not  keep  the 
prison  section  awake  at  night  by  their  yells, 
they  are  usually  kept  in  solitary  confinement 
in  a  cell,  sometimes  for  weeks  at  a  time,  un- 
til at  last  they  are  visited  by  doctors  and 
declared  insane. 

An  Italian  peddler  who  claimed  to  have 
been  sentenced  unjustly  for  buying  stolen 
copper  wire,  was  found  within  a  few  weeks 
after  his  arrival  at  tlie  island  with  two  tin 
cups  in  his  cell.  One  cup  had  been  left  be- 
hind by  a  released  convict,  the  other  be- 
longed to  him.  Although  he  could  not  have 
known  of  the  infraction  of  the  rules,  he  was 
dragged  to  the  wall  by  a  keeper.  When  the 
warden  came  to  dispense  "justice,"  he  heard 
the  keeper's  story  and  then  asked  the  prison- 
er to  explain.    The  man  tried  to  explain  in 


THE  HOSPITAL  131 

his  broken  English  that  he  had  found  the  cup 
in  his  cell;  but  the  warden  cut  the  gordian 
knot  impatiently  by  saying:  "None  of  your 
damned  excuses!    Two  days  in  the  cooler!" 

The  result  can  be  imagined.  The  unfor- 
tunate peddler,  frantic  already  from  the  idea 
of  having  been  unjustly  sentenced,  and  wor- 
ried sick  over  the  fate  of  his  helpless  wife 
and  children,  could  not  stand  this  other  bolt 
from  the  sky ;  this  punishment  for  something 
he  did  not  understand,  in  the  form  of  terrible 
torture  in  a  pitch  dark  cell,  without  food  or 
water,  for  an  infraction  of  unknown  rules; 
and  he  broke  down  completely  under  the 
strain.  When  he  came  out  of  the  "cooler" 
he  was,  as  the  keeper  declared,  "completely 
bug-house." 

For  some  time  we  were  kept  busy  watch- 
ing the  peddler;  even  his  shoes  had  to  be 
taken  from  under  his  bed  as  he  tried  to 
knock  the  heels  into  his  skull. 

Much  to  my  dismay,  I  was  put  to  sleep 
near  his  bed.    Half  a  dozen  times  he  tried 


132    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

to  strangle  himself,  and  on  the  morning  of 
his  release,  while  I  was  asleep  with  my  back 
to  him,  he  jumped  on  my  bed  like  a  cat,  and 
with  his  two  powerful  hands  tried  to  choke 
me  to  death.  Convicts  came  to  my  rescue; 
and  when  he  was  asked  the  reason  for  his 
attempt  on  my  life,  he  calmly  declared  that 
it  was  because  I  had  signed  the  warrant  for 
his  death  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

When  we  took  him  downstairs  later,  he 
refused  to  change  his  striped  suit  for  his 
street  clothes,  and  shouted  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  die  in  the  "cooler"  at  nine 
o'clock.  His  wife  had  to  be  brought  over 
from  the  54th  Street  side,  and  she  induced 
him  to  dress  and  go  home. 

A  religious  maniac  was  put  under  our 
care  a  week  before  his  release.  His  particu- 
lar delusion  was  that  he  was  preaching  in 
the  desert.  When  a  keeper  approached  to 
silence  him,  he  hfted  his  right  arm  and,  with 
eyes  popping  out  of  their  sockets  and  a  ter- 
rified look  on  his  face,  he  shouted  in  a  sten- 


THE  HOSPITAL  133 

torian  voice :  " Vade  retro  satanas !"  ( "Get 
thee  behind  me,  Satan!")  "I  say,  for  it  is 
wi-itten,  thou  shalt  worship  the  Lord  thy 
God,  and  Him  only  shalt  thou  serve!" 

In  his  sane  moments  he  was  silent  and 
morose ;  and  when  told  about  his  strange  be- 
haviour, he  answered  that  he  knew  by  the 
sudden  rising  of  heat  to  his  head  when  a  fit 
was  coming. 

His  religious  sermons,  which  kept  us 
awake  several  hours  in  the  night,  were  in- 
terrupted by  excursions  under  beds  and 
tables,  while  he  barked  like  a  dog  at  any  one 
who  tried  to  stop  him.  He  was  then  imper- 
sonating the  champion  bulldog,  Rodney 
Stone. 

Another  addition  to  our  collection  of  the 
insane  was  a  giant  negro;  but  fortunately 
the  expression  of  his  derangement  was  only 
before  meals,  when  he  knelt  at  the  table,  say- 
ing grace,  but  refusing  all  food. 

Even  Matteawan  sent  us  a  man  who  was 
supposed  to  be  cured.    He  was  a  muscular. 


134    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

low-browed  German  sailor  who  spoke  bad, 
ungrammatical  German  and  worse  English. 
An  accident  to  his  leg  brought  him  up- 
stairs, and  when  the  doctor  undressed  him 
we  saw  that  his  whole  body  was  covered  with 
blue  and  red  tattoos,  primitive  and  childish 
drawings  of  nude  figures,  which  reminded 
me  of  some  of  Matisse's  masterpieces. 

He  asked  us  every  few  hours  in  a  terrified 
whisper  if  we  did  not  see  the  furniture  and 
the  walls  rock  as  if  in  an  earthquake.  At 
night  he  would  point  a  long  finger  to  the 
ceiling,  where  he  claimed  to  see  a  small  open- 
ing out  of  which  a  keeper  thrust  his  head, 
abusing  him  with  vile  names,  and  shouting 
that  in  a  short  time  he  would  be  electrocuted. 

Otherwise  he  was  inoffensive;  and  some- 
times he  would  amuse  us  by  relating  his  ad- 
ventures with  the  women  in  Matteawan. 

Like  most  insane  men,  he  slept  very  lit- 
tle, sitting  up  in  his  bed  all  night,  holding 
two  crutches  tightly  clutched,  on  the  alert 


THE  HOSPITAL  135 

for  the  keeper  who  was  going  to  electrocute 
him. 

But  an  unwise  threat  to  brain  Richard, 
the  assistant,  deprived  him  of  the  necessary 
but  dangerous  crutches. 


XV 


Another  patient  was  sent  up  by  the  doc- 
tor. He  seemed  so  sick  and  weak  it  ap- 
peared a  wonder  that  he  could  still  walk. 
He  was  a  poor  Jew,  suffering  from  stomach 
trouble.  Emaciated,  yellow,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  intense  suffering  on  his  face, 
which  was  deeply  furrowed  by  wrinkles,  with 
a  beard  a  week  old,  and  his  long,  pointed 
nose,  he  looked  like  a  sick  vulture. 

When  he  begged  for  special  food,  the 
orderly  sarcastically  offered  him  the  choice 
between  filet  mignon  with  potatoes,  or  cut- 
lets with  French  peas.  The  doctor,  how- 
ever, realized  that  unless  he  was  put  on  a 
special  diet,  the  man  would  die  on  his  hands. 


136    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

He  had  been  sentenced  to  two  months  in 
the  penitentiary  for  stealing  two  packages 
of  cigarettes,  and  the  judge  did  not  realize 
that  it  was  his  death  sentence.  The  tenacity 
of  the  man  in  clinging  to  life  was  amazing ; 
it  exemplified  anew  the  remarkable  vitality 
of  his  race. 

He  was  always  disobeying  the  doctor's 
orders.  He  tried  to  get  up  from  his  bed  one 
afternoon,  but  he  fell,  and  the  bed  pan,  with 
all  its  contents,  emptied  over  him  and  all 
over  the  floor.  I  ran  to  assist  him,  but — I 
was  never  well  in  prison — the  stench  was 
so  overpowering  that  I  became  sick  and  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  and  had  to  turn  away. 
Two  convicts  who  had  joined  me  saw  my 
sickly  face  and  smilingly  said:  "Never 
mind,  boss;  you  go  to  the  window  to  get 
some  fresh  air.  We'll  clean  up  the  mess  for 
you." 

Everybody  wondered  how  the  poor  man 
had  managed  to  keep  a  flicker  of  life  in  a 
body  which  was  mere  bone  and  skin. 


THE  HOSPITAL  137 

One  night  in  my  sleep  I  imagined  that  I 
had  heard  him  call.  As  I  sat  up  in  my  cot  I 
heard  his  rattling,  hoarse  whisper  calling  the 

night  orderly:     "Oh,  Mr ,  please  give 

me  some  water!  A  glass  of  water!  I  am 
dying!" 

The  orderly,  who  had  been  sleeping  with 
his  feet  on  the  desk,  woke  up,  looked  towards 
the  patient,  changed  the  position  of  his  feet, 
and  shouted:    "Ah,  shut  up,  you  kike!" 

I  got  up  and  brought  him  a  glass  of  water. 
He  thanked  me,  and  whispered:  "I  am 
dying!    I  don't  want  to  die  in  jail!" 

I  tried  to  cheer  him  up  with  the  thought 
that  he  would  be  released  in  two  weeks ;  but 
he  shook  his  head.  Terror  was  written  on 
his  ghastly  features.  "Please,  I  don't  want 
to  die  in  jail,"  he  said. 

They  were  his  last  words. 


138    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 


XTI 


A  boy  with  blond  hair,  blue  eyes,  pink  and 
white  as  a  girl,  modest  as  a  nun,  gentlemanly 
and  soft  spoken  as  Lord  Fauntleroy,  came 
upstairs  to  be  operated  on  for  a  tumor.  A 
sentence  of  two  and  a  half  years  had  been 
inflicted  on  him  for  selling  cocaine.  This 
deadly  drug  was  furnished  to  him  by  a 
friend  once  when  he  was  suffering  from  a 
cold.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was,  but  he 
felt  a  wonderful  exhilaration  and  a  new 
strength  come  upon  him,  so  that  his  ill- 
ness seemed  to  vanish.  The  reaction  was 
terrific,  but  he  became  addicted  to  the  drug ; 
and  as  he  could  not  afford  to  buy  the  stuff, 
he  began  selling  it,  both  for  the  profit  and 
to  be  able  to  acquire  it.  His  youth,  and  his 
already  weak  will,  made  him  an  easy  prey  to 
the  evil  company  into  which  he  was  soon 
thrown.  His  father  and  mother  and  sisters 
were  respectable  and  law  abiding  people  of 
the  middle  class,  but  they  did  not  seem  able 


THE  HOSPITAL  139 

to  cope  with  the  peculiar  conditions  into 
which  he  had  fallen. 

Now  that  he  is  behind  the  bars  he  seems 
to  realize  the  danger  of  his  weakness,  and 
he  speaks  of  going  back  home  to  work 
among  his  own  people. 

After  he  was  well  again  they  sent  him 
downstairs  to  work  in  the  machine  shop. 
Within  two  months  he  was  back  again  in  the 
hospital  to  be  operated  on  for  another  tumor. 

What  a  transformation!  Instead  of  the 
gentle,  well-mannered,  repentant  young 
sinner,  we  found  a  pale-faced  young  tough, 
with  a  sneering  grin,  walking  with  stooped 
shoulders,  chin  forward,  arms  curved,  closed 
fists,  in  imitation  of  "gorillas"  looking  for 
trouble. 

In  his  speech  there  was  also  a  great 
change.  Where  there  had  been  little  per- 
sonality or  color,  there  was  now  a  pictur- 
esque wealth  of  blasphemies;  names  and 
adjectives  and  punctuation  were  expressed 
by  short  but  intensely  vile  words. 


140    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

When  we  remarked  at  the  astonishing 
change,  he  answered,  speaking  through  one 
side  of  his  mouth:  "Ah,  quit  your  kiddin'! 
You  talk  like  a  preacher.  I  ain't  no  sissy 
no  more.  When  I  gets  out  o'  here  I'll  pull 
something  big  that'll  knock  you  stiff.  You 
get  me?"  And  he  spat  sideways  on  the  floor 
in  supreme  contempt.  But  when  we  laughed 
at  his  pretence  and  strutting,  he  blushed  in 
anger  and  disappointment. 

It  seems  that  when  he  was  sent  down- 
stairs after  his  first  operation  he  was 
"doubled  up"  with  a  notorious  burglar,  who 
undertook  to  educate  him  and  train  him, 
with  a  view  to  using  the  lad  to  assist  him  in 
his  work  after  his  release.  A  few  weeks 
later  his  mentor  joined  him  in  the  hospital, 
but  unlike  his  talkative  pupil,  who  was 
quickly  ordered  to  "shut  his  mug,"  he  was 
reserved  and  secretive  as  to  his  life  and 
plans. 

But  one  evening  at  dusk,  as  we  were  both 
watching  the  New  York  skyline  from  the 


THE  HOSPITAL  141 

barred  windows,  the  reserve  gave  way,  and 
the  cracksman  told  me  of  liis  life. 

It  was  one  of  those  rare  moments  when 
even  a  strong  and  evil  spirit  will  waver  and 
doubt ;  when  his  heart  will  overflow  with  dis- 
gust and  tlie  hopelessness  of  his  earthly 
quest.  The  attitude  of  contrition  dissipated 
like  smoke  when  he  was  asked  if  it  was  not 
possible  to  make  a  living  in  an  honest  way. 

"Nothing  doing,"  he  said.  "The  bulls 
won't  give  me  a  chance.  They'll  spot  me 
and  job  me  if  I  don't  put  up  the  dough. 
It's  a  fight  to  a  finish.  At  the  other  end 
there  is  either  Sing  Sing  or  the  death  chair. 
There  ain't  no  hope.  I'U  live  and  die  a 
crook." 

Two  years  later  I  read  that  my  friend 
the  cracksman  and  his  pals  had  been  caught 
trying  to  blow  up  a  safe  in  a  most  daring 
and  scientific  manner.  And  the  whole  gang 
was  sentenced  to  Sing  Sing  for  a  long  term. 


142    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

XVII 

A  Jewish  pickpocket  is  one  of  the  patients 
who  is  under  suspicion  of  faking.  The 
young  doctor  suggested  my  watching  him, 
and  when  I  reported,  he  declared  that  he 
was  satisfied  in  his  suspicion,  but  did  not 
send  him  to  his  cell  at  once,  as  he  would 
have  been  punished. 

Meanwhile  he  helps  and  amuses  us  with 
stories  of  his  checkered  career.  At  first  I 
could  not  make  out  what  was  the  matter 
with  him.  He  couldn't  walk  any  distance 
without  jerking  his  head  backwards.  I 
thought  he  suffered  from  some  peculiar 
nervous  trouble  in  the  muscles  of  the  neck. 
When  I  asked  him  about  it  he  confessed 
that  it  was  a  habit  formed  by  years  of  un- 
conscious but  very  useful  watching  to  see 
if  he  was  followed  by  detectives.  Even  in 
the  hospital,  when  he  knew  that  he  was  not 
followed,  he  would  throw  his  head  in  quick 
glances  backwards. 


THE  HOSPITAL  143 

He  told  us  that  the  last  time  he  had  been 
caught  by  the  detectives  he  was  taken  to 
headquarters  and  given  a  taste  of  the  third 
degree.  As  he  wouldn't  confess,  the  brave 
detectives,  wearing  masks,  beat  him  until 
he  was  insensible,  and  even  broke  two  of 
his  front  teeth.  The  generous  head  of  the 
detectives  promised  that  if  he  did  not  make  a 
complaint  to  the  newspapers  he  would  see  to 
it  that  he  would  be  sent  for  only  a  year  to 
the  penitentiary  instead  of  up  the  river  for 
several  years. 

We  have  several  pickpockets  in  the  hos- 
pital. One  of  them  has  grown  a  beard;  he  is 
a  Jew,  tall,  thin  but  muscular,  and  when 
he  walks  to  the  bathroom  in  his  night  shirt, 
he  seems  like  a  caricature  of  one  of  the 
prophets  of  his  faith. 

He  volunteered  to  rub  sulphur  ointment 
on  my  body  as  the  doctor  had  ordered.  The 
strength  of  his  muscles,  and  the  vise-like 
grip  of  his  hands,  was  almost  beyond  belief. 
When  he  took  hold  of  my  arm  to  massage  it 


144    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

I  felt  that  he  could  easily  have  broken  it 
with  a  quick  blow;  but  he  was  very  gentle 
and  kind  withal. 

A  red-headed  consumptive,  who  killed  his 
wife  and  child  in  a  fit  of  anger  and  jealousy, 
was  sent  over  from  the  Tombs  while  waiting 
for  trial.  He  ordered  me  in  a  peremptory 
manner  to  do  something  for  him.  I  repeated 
to  him  the  lecture  I  had  read  to  the  bulldog 
negro,  but  he  lost  his  temper,  and  began 
foaming  at  the  mouth  and  abusing  me  in  a 
violent  and  insane  fit  of  anger. 

I  did  not  answer,  as  I  felt  that  he  was 
not  responsible  for  his  actions ;  and  left  him 
alone.  Fifteen  minutes  later  he  came  into 
the  bathroom,  where  I  was  cleaning  some 
medicine  bottles.  I  fully  expected  to  have 
to  defend  myself  against  an  attack.  In- 
stead of  that,  however,  he  began  apologizing 
for  his  unwarranted  behaviour,  adding  that 
when  he  lost  his  temper  he  did  not  know 
what  he  was  saying  or  doing;  that  anger 
went  to  his  head  like  poison  and  completely 


THE  HOSPITAL  145 

overcame  his  reason.  He  begged  me  to 
forgive  him  and  accept  his  apology. 

This  is  the  third  time  that  a  convict  has 
offered  an  apology  for  having  lost  his  tem- 
per and  used  profane  language  to  me. 

I  asked  one  of  the  convicts  who  had  apolo- 
gized if  he  thought  I  had  kept  silent  be- 
cause I  was  afraid  of  him.  "No,"  he  said. 
"The  man  who  loses  his  temper  is  the  one 
who  is  afraid.  The  one  who  never  becomes 
angry  is  never  afraid;  he  is  the  better  man 
of  the  two." 

XVIII 

I  had  been  three  months  in  the  hospital 
before  I  began  to  suspect  that  I  would  never 
get  over  my  skin  disease  so  long  as  I  wore 
the  tattered  and  patched  striped  trousers 
which  had  been  handed  to  me  on  my  arrival. 
Therefore  I  begged  the  hospital  keeper  for 
permission  to  get  a  new  or  at  least  a  clean 
pair.     He  told  me  to  go  downstairs  to  the 


146    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

head  keeper's  desk.  The  reception  I  got 
from  the  head  keeper  was  not  surprising, 
but  his  sudden  burst  of  anger  and  his  intem- 
perate language  puzzled  me  not  a  little.  As 
soon  as  I  approached  him  he  turned  around 

sharply  and  shouted :    "What  the  h do 

you  want?" 

Before  I  had  time  to  complete  my  request 
he  interrupted  me,  and  shaking  his  fist  at  me, 
yelled :  "A  pair  of  trousers !  What  do  you 
think  of  that  dude  in  the  hospital  wanting 
a  new  pair  of  trousers !    Go  on  back  to  your 

hospital,  you  dirty  bum.    You !    Get 

out!" 

I  turned  back  slowly  without  answering, 
trying  meanwhile  to  puzzle  out  how  I  could 
represent  two  such  different  social  extremes 
in  the  mind  of  the  irate  keeper — a  dude  and 
a  dirty  bum! 

When  I  related  the  incident  to  my  hos- 
pital keeper,  he  shook  his  head  and  declared 
the  head  keeper  an  uncouth,  stupid  animal, 
and  promised  to  speak  about  it  to  the  Dep- 


THE  HOSPITAL  147 

uty.  Next  day  a  runner  brought  me  a  brand 
new  pair  of  striped  trousers,  which  looked 
quite  becoming  and  a  good  fit  after  the  rags 
I  had  worn  for  so  long. 

XIX 

A  great  many  doctors  come  to  visit  the 
hospital.  Sometimes  the  young  students 
from  the  city  hospital,  then  the  aristocratic 
and  famous  surgeons  who  operate  on  des- 
perate cases,  specialists,  all  grades  and 
classes  of  physicians,  enter  accompanied  by 
the  little  doctor  who  lives  upstairs  on  the 
top  floor.  His  name  is  B.  Davidson.  He 
is  so  small  that  he  seems  almost  a  school- 
boy; his  eye-glasses  are  the  only  elderly 
thing  about  him.  But  he  is  very  efficient, 
scrupulous  and — a  marvelous  thing  in 
prison — humane  in  his  treatment  of  the 
convicts. 

The  warden  and  the  keepers  hamper  liim 
continually  in  his  work,  as  he  will  not  listen 


148    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

to  their  opinion  about  convicts  who,  accord- 
ing to  them,  are  all  fakers.  They  have  the 
temerity  to  place  their  ignorance,  and  their 
hatred  of  the  prisoners,  against  the  profes- 
sional knowledge  and  humanity  of  the  doe- 
tor. 

The  boy  who  had  a  tumor  on  his  back  was 
kept  a  week  locked  in  a  cell,  and  was  not 
allowed  to  see  a  doctor,  because  the  keeper 
claimed  that  he  was  faking.  The  doctor 
laughed  when  he  related  the  story.  "Imag- 
ine anybody  faking  a  tumor  the  size  of  a 
cocoanut!" 

In  the  opinion  of  most  prison  keepers, 
every  man  who  reports  on  the  sick  list  is  an 
incipient  faker.  The  sick  man  has  to  in- 
form his  own  keeper  and  he  is  then  reported 
to  the  head  keeper.  Should  they  diagnose 
the  case  as  a  fake,  then  the  prisoner  is  shoved 
back  gently  to  the  line ;  but  should  the  con- 
vict in  spite  of  their  verdict  insist  that  he  is 
sick,  he  is  locked  up  in  a  cell  to  get  well 


ri'' 


THE  HOSPITAL  149 

without  a  doctor,  or  to  rot  in  it,  until  even 
the  doctor's  help  is  of  no  avail. 

JNIost  cases  of  consumption,  paralysis,  in- 
sanity, or  any  internal  disorder,  are  consid- 
ered fake  cases.  Only  when  a  man  hreaks 
a  limb  or  splits  his  head  open,  or  when  some 
disease  "breaks  out"  on  him,  is  he  believed 
to  be  sincere. 

The  sturdy  young  sailor  who  had  worked 
at  my  side  in  the  tailor  shop  was  brought 
to  the  hospital.  He  was  so  changed  that  I 
liardly  recognized  him.  I  had  to  ask  him 
his  name,  and  if  he  remembered  having 
worked  in  the  same  shop  with  me,  before 
I  became  convinced  that  he  was  the  same 
man. 

They  kept  him  locked  up  in  a  cell  a  whole 
week  before  the  doctor  was  permitted  to 
visit  him,  and  then  they  discovered  that  he 
was  suffering  from  typhoid  fever.  Mean- 
while he  had  been  eating  food  from  tin  plates 
which  were  washed  in  the  kitchen. 

A  convict  who  was  in  perfect  agony  from 


150    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

neuralgia  of  the  teeth  was  visited  twice.  As 
no  cavity  could  be  discovered,  they  punished 
him  by  extracting  forcibly  three  perfectly 
healthy  teeth  from  his  jaw. 

This  incident  was  related  as  a  great  joke 
by  a  young  assistant  to  a  doctor,  to  two 
companions  who  were  preparing  a  patient 
for  an  operation. 

A  pair  of  prison-made  shoes,  with  a  nail 
sticking  up  inside  the  heel,  was  forced  on  a 
new-comer  by  the  head  keeper.  When  he 
protested,  he  was  abused,  insulted  and 
threatened  with  punishment  if  he  did  not 
put  on  that  particular  pair  of  shoes.  For 
two  days  the  unfortunate  man  hobbled 
about,  working  in  the  kitchen,  trying  as  best 
he  could  to  ease  the  intense  pain  on  his  heel 
inflicted  by  a  rusty  nail.  His  foot  began 
swelling  and,  made  desperate  by  the  pain, 
he  finally  refused  to  work  until  he  had  seen 
a  doctor.  When  the  doctor  examined  him, 
he  discovered  that  he  was  suffering  from 


THE  HOSPITAL  151 

blood  poisoning  of  the  foot,  and  he  had  to 
be  kept  over  two  months  in  the  hospital. 

A  boy  was  discovered,  by  accident,  work- 
ing in  the  bakery  suffering  from  a  loath- 
some venereal  disease. 

The  young  doctor  could  not  stand  the  per- 
secution of  the  system,  and  he  left  in  disgust. 

The  new  doctor  is  a  sallow-faced,  green- 
eyed  individual,  evidently  a  dope  fiend. 
He  leaves  morphine  hypodermic  syringes 
lying  all  over  the  place;  and  any  one  who 
wants  an  injection  can  have  it  for  the  ask- 
ing. Luckily  for  us,  he  did  not  stay  very 
long. 

One  night  we  were  kept  awake  by  heart- 
rending, piercing  howls,  which  came  from 
the  apartment  occupied  by  the  doctor  on 
the  top  floor.  He  had,  as  we  found  out 
later,  taken  an  overdose  of  morphine. 

Next  day  he  appeared  in  the  hospital, 
staggering  sideways,  breathing  heavily  and 
with  a  hollow  sound,  like  a  damaged  bel- 
lows.   His  body  shook  as  if  with  the  palsy. 


152    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

his  hands  trembled  as  they  groped  for  sup- 
port; and  all  the  while  he  was  moaning, 
whining,  grunting.  He  fell  into  a  sitting 
posture  on  the  floor,  and  began  catching 
imaginary  flies  on  his  sleeves. 

We  had  to  carry  him  upstairs  and  put  him 
to  bed.    He  went  away  the  next  day. 

The  doctor  who  succeeded  him  is  a  young 
man  who  seems  sympathetic  and  efficient, 
but  he  has  to  keep  his  job,  and  so  he  takes 
orders  from  the  consulting  keepers,  who 
diagnose  cases  before  he  is  allowed  to  see 
them  or  to  send  them  to  the  hospital. 


XX 

The  conversation  at  our  meals  in  the  hos- 
pital table  d'hote,  although  carried  on  in  an 
undertone,  is  very  often  amusing  and  enliv- 
ened by  quite  witty  repartee.  The  table 
manners  of  the  men  are  not  as  bad  as  might 
be  expected  from  the  motley  crowd  which 
adorns  our  board.    All  the  nationalities  and 


THE  HOSPITAL  153 

races  and  classes  of  this  wide  world  liave 
been  waited  upon  by  us :  negroes,  Chinamen, 
Mexicans,  Slavs,  Italians,  Jews,  Hunga- 
rians, Arabs,  Syrians,  Hindus;  members  of 
all  the  different  professions,  such  as  waiters, 
lawyers,  hold-up  men,  capitalists,  fortune 
tellers,  doctors,  sneak  tliieves,  bankers, 
bums,  dentists,  burglars,  "sky  pilots," 
grafters,  butchers,  gamblers,  street  car  con- 
ductors, confidence  men,  tailors,  insane  men, 
tramps,  crooks,  horse  poisoners,  saloon  keep- 
ers^— everybody  and  everything! 

In  a  restaurant,  in  a  public  cafe,  in  a  bar- 
room, one  meets  or  sees  many  people  whose 
profession  or  real  status  is  a  mystery,  and 
often  a  secret;  but  here  everybody's  pro- 
fession, character,  antecedents,  sentence, 
criminal  record,  are  kno\Mi,  judged  and 
commented  upon.  Here  nobody  can  put  on 
airs  because  he  has  a  fat  bank  account,  finer 
clothes,  more  expensive  jewelry,  better  fam- 
ily connections,  or  greater  political  influ- 
ence.   A  man  is  judged  by  his  character, 


154    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

his  personality,  his  attitude  toward  the  pris- 
oners and  the  keepers.  This  is  one  place 
where  fine  feathers  do  not  make  fine  birds. 

The  appetite  of  the  men,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  sick,  is  always  of  the  best.  They 
are  very  particular  about  the  quantity  as 
well  as  the  quality  of  the  food.  There  is  no 
reason  to  complain  about  it,  except  the 
coffee,  which  is  served  downstairs,  and  which 
is  no  coffee  at  all,  but  roasted  bread  crust 
which  spoils  the  water  in  which  it  is  soaked. 
Many  a  man  would  prefer  pure  water  to  the 
unsweetened,  light-brown  mixture,  called 
"bootleg."  It  isn't  even  near  coffee,  but  it 
is  insidiously  named  "coffee,"  so  as  to  prove 
to  the  public  that  the  convicts  are  pampered 
and  spoiled. 

One  day  a  member  of  the  Prison  Com- 
mission who  was  visiting  the  penitentiary 
picked  up  a  tin  cup  of  "coffee"  which  was 
standing  in  the  mess  hall,  where  the  convicts 
were  watching  the  visitors  testing  the  food 
which  had  been  picked  out  for  that  purpose. 


THE  HOSPITAL  155 

The  Commissioner  drank  half  a  mouthful  of 
the  "bootleg,"  and  then,  with  a  wry  face, 
swiftly  spat  it  on  the  floor.  The  convicts 
did  not  laugh ;  they  were  too  well  disciplined 
for  that ;  but  an  almost  imperceptible  whis- 
pering titter  swept  all  over  the  mess  hall 
like  a  June  breeze  wafting  over  a  wheat 
field. 

XXI 

The  other  day  a,  man  was  brought  up  to 
the  hospital  to  have  his  broken  arm  band- 
aged. He  had  got  up  in  the  mess  hall  and 
started  to  voice  a  protest  against  the  rotten 
meat.  Two  keepers  jumped  on  him  with 
their  sticks  and  beat  him  until  he  was  in- 
sensible. Later  the  "Dep"  came  upstairs  to 
look  him  over,  and  said:  "So  you  think  you 
are  a  tough  guy!"  The  man  kept  silent; 
but  later  he  was  sent  to  the  "cooler." 

There  is  an  old  Italian  tailor  in  the  hos- 
pital who  has  become  popular  because  he 


156    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

mends  our  socks  and  makes  pockets  in  our 
trousers.  He  eats  enormous  quantities  of 
food,  and  after  he  is  throug'h  he  wipes  his 
mouth  with  the  crust  of  bread  which  does 
service  for  him  as  a  napkin ! 

A  dope  fiend,  who  had  kept  us  awake  five 
nights  in  succession,  was  allowed  to  sit  at 
the  table  after  he  had  broken  his  fast  with 
milk.  He  was  warned  to  eat  sparingly. 
One  Friday,  as  fish  was  served  and  I  knew 
only  two  pieces  had  been  eaten,  I  was  won- 
dering where  it  all  had  gone  when  I  emptied 
the  dishes  in  the  garbage  can.  Out  of  six- 
teen pieces  of  fish  that  had  been  served, 
only  two  could  be  accounted  for.  I  turned 
to  look  over  the  room,  and  I  noticed  our 
dope  fiend  still  chewing  away  at  something. 
Then  I  noticed  the  shirt  round  his  belt  bulg- 
ing in  an  unusual  fashion  across  his  very 
lean  body;  and  I  was  surprised  to  discover 
what  had  happened  to  the  missing  portions 
of  fish. 

Not  satisfied  with  having  eaten  two  pieces 


THE  HOSPITAL  157 

of  fish,  our  dope  fiend  had  stuffed  the 
other  fourteen  pieces  inside  his  shirt,  so  as 
to  make  sure  that  he  would  have  enough 
food  to  last  him  through  the  night. 

For  five  consecutive  nights  he  had  kept  us 
awake  with  his  moaning  and  raving,  sitting 
upright  in  his  bed,  swinging  his  body  back 
and  forth  pendulum  fashion.  He  could  not 
keep  anything  in  his  stomach,  either  food 
or  water.  He  begged  piteously  for  an  in- 
jection of  morphine,  but  the  new  doctor  was 
obdiu'ate;  he  said  that  it  was  either  cure  or 
kill.  When  the  morphine  was  eliminated  he 
became  liimself  again,  and  he  was  cured  of 
his  habit.  Some  morphine  fiends  die  from 
the  stoppage  of  the  supply,  but  many  of 
them  are  effectively  cured. 

A  bald-headed,  consumptive  negro  keeps 
us  in  constant  laughter — when  prison  lets 
us  laugh — ^with  wonderful  and  never  ending 
stories  of  his  adventurous  life.  Even  the 
d(x?tor  will  stand  by  the  hour  listening  to 
his  quaint  speech  and  stories.    Although  he 


158    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

is  an  old  rascal  and  an  old  offender,  one 
cannot  help  liking  him  for  his  cheerful,  gay 
attitude  towards  life. 

He  related  how  one  time,  after  serving  a 
term  in  the  reformatory,  he  went  back  to 
his  wife  in  New  York.  She  lived  in  an 
apartment  on  the  ground  floor,  and  she 
seemed  to  be  happy  to  see  him  again.  She 
inquired  about  his  health  and  asked  about 
his  future  prospects.  While  they  were  talk- 
ing he  heard  somebody  opening  the  front 
door  with  a  latch  key.  He  became  quite 
nervous,  and  asked  his  wife  who  it  was  that 
dared  to  come  in  without  ringing  the  bell. 
"Dat's  de  husband  I'se  married  while  you 
was  in  jail;  and  he's  a  big  black  coon,"  she 
said. 

He  jumped  hastily  through  the  window, 
he  confessed  to  us,  so  as  not  to  embarrass 
husband  number  two,  and  leaving  behind  a 
grip  with  his  clothes.  He  came  back  next 
night  to  get  his  belongings,  and  he  used  the 
window  this  time  as  a  means  of  entrance. 


THE  HOSPITAL  159 

But  fate  was  against  him.  As  he  emerged 
from  the  window  again  he  fell  into  the  arms 
of  a  watchful  policeman,  who  promptly  ar- 
rested him.  Being  an  ex-convict,  he  was 
sentenced  to  a  year  in  the  penitentiary,  as 
he  said,  for  stealing  his  own  pants! 

A  tall,  hlond  Pole  behaved  in  such  a  dis- 
gusting manner  at  the  table  that  the  keeper 
ordered  him  back  to  his  bed. 

The  first  two  weeks  that  he  was  in  bed  we 
could  not  induce  him  to  get  up  to  perform 
the  most  normal  animal  functions.  But,  as 
there  did  not  seem  to  be  anything  the  mat- 
ter with  him,  he  was  finally  forced  to  get  up 
and  go  to  the  bathroom. 

For  more  than  two  weeks  we  had  plied 
him  with  questions — myself,  the  doctors,  and 
all  the  convicts  who  knew  different  lan- 
guages. He  looked  at  us  with  his  big,  blue 
eyes,  shaking  his  head  as  if  he  did  not  under- 
stand what  we  were  talking  about.  We 
finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  either 


160    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

spoke  some  unknown  language,  or  that 
maybe  he  was  deaf  and  mute. 

One  day  Richard,  the  young  assistant, 
made  him  get  up,  but  instead  of  walking, 
he  crept  on  all  fours  to  the  bathroom.  Then 
he  got  up  like  a  human  being  and  started 
drinking  water  from  the  faucet.  Richard 
took  him  to  task  for  his  uncleanliness.  He 
said  to  him:  "Wash  your  face,  you  dirty 
pig!"  And  to  the  utter  amazement  of 
Richard,  the  supposed  deaf  mute  turned 
roimd  angrily  and  said,  in  perfect  English: 
"You  go  to  hell,  will  you!"  A  few  weeks 
later  he  was  taken  to  Matteawan. 

Later  I  gathered  from  another  Pole  who 
had  talked  to  him  and  succeeded  in  making 
him  answer,  that  he  had  been  a  petty  officer 
in  the  Russian  navy,  and  that  he  had  muti- 
nied, and  later  had  succeeded  in  escaping  to 
America. 

He  had  hit  upon  the  idea  of  feigning  in- 
sanity in  order  to  foil  the  vigilant  Russian 
secret  service  agents,  who  would  be  on  the 


THE  HOSPITAL  161 

lookout  for  him  upon  his  release  from  the 
Island ;  he  feared  that  thev  would  create  an 
opportunity  to  "shanghai"  him  on  board  a 
Russian  ship,  and  he  knew  that  they  would 
hang  him  if  he  ever  was  returned  to  the 
fatherland.  He  had  been  sentenced  to  sixty 
days  on  the  Island  for  vagrancy. 

XXII 

Protestant  clergj'^men,  Catholic  priests, 
Rabbis,  Sisters  of  Mercy,  missionaries  and 
even  a  Theosophist  preacher,  visit  the  prison 
and  the  hospital  regularly.  Saturday  after- 
noon is  a  very  busy  time  for  the  "sky 
pilots." 

One  "sky  pilot"  comes  only  during  the 
lunch  hour  and,  walking  to  the  busy  table, 
invariablj^  asks:  "Well,  boys,  how  goes  it?'* 
He  has  never  been  knf)wn  to  change  his 
queiy  in  years — and  that  is  the  only  service 
he  has  ever  done  for  the  souls  of  the  con- 
victs. 


162    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

A  tall,  thin,  spectacled,  Protestant  mis- 
sionary devotes  a  great  deal  of  his  time  to 
what  he  calls  "saving  souls  from  eternal 
damnation";  his  way  of  doing  this  myste- 
rious thing  is  by  leaving  tracts  on  our  beds. 
They  contain  startling  headlines,  such,  for 
instance,  as  this:  "Be  with  Jesus.  He  is 
your  only  pal!" 

When  I  laughed  at  one  of  his  quotations 
from  the  Bible,  which  I  claimed  was  incor- 
rect, he  retorted  by  saying  that  my  spirit 
was  full  of  unclean  devils.  I  answered  by 
saying  that  I  would  rather  be  a  real  devU 
than  a  false  saint  of  his  type,  and  he  at 
once  proved  the  truth  of  my  assertion  by 
calling  me  unseemly  and  unchristian  epi- 
thets, greatly  to  the  merriment  of  the  listen- 
ing convicts  and  the  keeper.  I  told  him  to 
go  away  from  me  and  let  me  alone,  but  fif- 
teen minutes  later  he  came  back  and  apolo- 
gized for  his  offensive  and  undignified  be- 
haviour, adding  that  he  had  looked  up  the 
quotation  in  a  Bible  at  the  keeper's  desk  and 


THE  HOSPITAL  163 

to  his  great  astonishment  found  that  he 
had  been  mistaken. 

Although  I  am  not  of  his  faith,  the  Rabbi 
comes  to  speak  to  me  every  week.  He  has 
taken  a  great  interest  in  my  case,  and  he 
offers  his  services  to  get  me  a  pardon,  de- 
ploring my  attitude  in  wasting  time  behind 
the  bars  and  in  the  vain  hope  that  my  appeal 
will  be  successful. 

But  he  is  surprised  when  I  inform  him 
that  I  do  not  expect  to  succeed  in  my  appeal, 
and  that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
accept  any  favors  from  the  parties  who  were 
responsible  for  my  prosecution  and  impris- 
onment, so  that  I  can  keep  my  hands  free 
to  act  in  case  there  are  further  revelations. 

A  few  weeks  later  another  Rabbi  takes 
his  place.  A  kinder  and  gentler  soul  it 
would  be  difficult  to  meet. 

The  Sisters  of  Mercy  appear  every  month 
or  so;  they  are  loved  and  venerated  by  the 
convicts.  I  have  noticed  that,  unlike  the 
other  missionaries  who   take  care  of  our 


164    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

spiritual  welfare,  the  Sisters  never  ask  a  con- 
vict: "What  crime  did  you  commit?"  but 
always:  "How  long  must  you  serve?" 
"Have  you  mother,  sister,  wife,  or  chil- 
dren?"   "What  can  we  do  to  help  them?" 

The  Sisters  never  argue,  discuss  or  theo- 
rize about  religion,  but  they  help  the  con- 
victs in  the  only  practical,  useful  and  effi- 
cient ways;  they  visit  and  appeal  to  judges 
and  District  Attorneys;  they  call  on  the 
families  of  the  convicts  and  their  friends; 
they  furnish  money  to  needy  relatives  and 
to  the  men  themselves  when  they  come  pen- 
niless out  of  prison. 

The  Protestant  clergymen,  the  Catholic 
priests,  the  Rabbis,  the  missionaries,  as  a 
rule  talk  only  to  the  men  of  their  own  faith. 
But  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  speak  to  every- 
body, no  matter  to  what  race  or  faith  they 
may  belong.  They  never  inquire  into  a 
man's  crimes;  all  they  ask  is  to  be  told  of 
his  troubles  and  worries  and  to  be  allowed  to 
do  what  they  can  to  relieve  them. 


THE  HOSPITAL  165 

One  of  the  Sisters  is  said  to  be  responsible 
for  the  elimination  of  stripes  in  Sing  Sing. 

XXIII 

Convicts  have  a  cunning  and  peculiar  way 
of  revenging  themselves  on  bad  and  cruel 
keepers.  When  one  of  that  type  is  put  on 
night  duty,  following  a  prearranged  sign 
the  whole  section  suddenly  starts  a  tremen- 
dous hullabaloo.  Several  hundred  convicts, 
acting  in  unison,  begin  yelling,  cat-calling, 
grunting,  roaring,  whistling,  stamping  their 
feet,  beating  the  bars  of  their  cages  with  tin 
cups  and  pail  covers.  The  enraged  keeper 
jumps  up  and  down  the  tiers  in  a  vain  ef- 
fort to  catch  the  arch  offenders,  but  on  his 
coming  a  signal  is  passed  to  the  whole  tier, 
which  suddenly  becomes  silent,  the  other  sec- 
tions in  the  meanwhile  increasing  the  noise 
and  disturbance  until  the  warden  appears. 
His  presence  seems  only  to  put  more  zest, 
energy  and  lung  power  into  the  demonstra- 


16G    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

tion.  Revolvers  are  fired  to  intimidate  the 
men  and  they  are  threatened  with  dire  pun- 
ishment, but  nothing  seems  to  be  able  to 
quell  the  rebellion,  and  it  is  continued  every 
night  until  the  offending  keeper  is  shifted. 

These  prearranged,  noisy  riots  are  rare 
and  as  a  rule  they  occur  only  in  cases  when 
bad  food  or  a  series  of  persecutions  have 
goaded  the  prisoners  to  the  only  real  ex- 
pression of  protest  which  can  be  effective. 

One  night  during  the  Hudson-Fulton 
celebration  in  New  York,  when  all  the  city 
was  gaily  illuminated,  and  all  the  bridges 
were  picked  out  in  electric  lights,  and  music 
and  shouts  could  be  heard  in  the  distance,  a 
rumpus  started  on  a  magnificent  scale  after 
the  convicts  had  been  locked  up  in  their 
cells. 

The  whole  prison  seemed  literally  to  have 
gone  insane.  The  pandemonium  let  loose 
was  so  terrific  that  it  could  be  heard  both 
from  the  New  York  and  the  Brooklyn  sides 
of  the  river.    The  warden  and  the  keepers 


THE  HOSPITAL  167 

were  perfect!}'  helpless;  they  could  not  sub- 
due the  prisoners,  who  kept  up  their  infernal 
racket  for  hour  after  hour,  and  stopped 
only  from  exhaustion,  when  there  was  no 
more  lung  power  to  draw  on.  This  noisy 
and  turbulent  protest  of  a  whole  prison  de- 
fying one  of  the  strictest  rules  of  jail  law 
was  a  strange  psychological  curiosity;  a 
mad,  reckless,  stentorian  rebellion  against 
the  rules  of  silence  when  the  great  metropolis 
was  heard  noisily  rejoicing  across  the  river. 

Prisoners  are  very  quick  to  find  out  a  bad 
or  a  good  keeper,  an  honest  or  a  grafting 
keeper. 

Humane  keepers  always  and  invariably 
get  the  best  results.  They  maintain  disci- 
pline with  very  little  effort,  and  the  pris- 
oners themselves  see  to  it  that  the  attitude 
of  such  keepers  is  not  changed  or  embittered 
by  malicious  and  silly  conduct  on  their  part 
or  that  of  their  companions.  The  foul- 
mouthed,  brutal  keeper  never  seems  to  be 


168    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

able  to  maintain  discipline,  and  when  he  re- 
venges himself  by  inflicting  unjust  punish- 
ments the  men  retaliate  by  all  kinds  of  per- 
secutions. 

An  unjust  and  exceedingly  brutal  keeper 
was  waylaid  one  night  on  his  way  home  by 
some  released  convicts,  who  "beat  him  up" 
in  such  a  manner  that  he  was  sent  to  a  hos- 
pital for  almost  a  month. 

The  Jewish  and  Italian  convicts  are  often 
victims  of  the  persecutions  of  some  keepers, 
who  heap  ridicule  and  injustice  and  punish- 
ment upon  them.  The  "guineas,"  the 
"wops,"  the  "sheenies"  and  "kikes,"  find  no 
mercy  at  the  hands  of  these  keepers,  who 
consider  men  of  these  races  as  inferior,  fit 
only  to  be  brutalized,  slowly  but  surely,  into 
superior  races. 

An  Irish  keeper  said  jokingly  to  an  Ital- 
ian convict  who  could  not  understand  some- 
thing in  connection  with  his  work: 

"Let  an  Irishman  show  you.  You  dagoes 
don't  know  nothing.    How  does  it  come  that 


THE  HOSPITAL  169 

they  pick  Popes  from  among  the  wops,  I 
wonder?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  Italian,  "and 
never  in  two  thousand  years  did  they  pick 
out  an  Irish  Pope." 

XXIV 

The  outlook  from  the  windows  of  our  hos- 
pital is  a  source  of  never  ending  interest. 

We  can  watch  the  grass  grow  and  the 
trees,  the  birds  hunting  for  food,  the  hospi- 
tal cat  waiting  patiently  under  a  bush  for 
a  stray  sparrow,  the  orderly  of  the  warden, 
haughty  and  always  in  a  hurry,  followed  by 
a  yellow  dog.  Another  orderly  is  a  red- 
headed young  man  who  is  called  a  "sugar 
man."  He  and  two  other  men  are  the 
"goats"  for  the  higher  officials  of  the  Sugar 
Trust. 

We  watch  the  visitors  come  in  from  the 
boats ;  the  doctors,  the  officials,  the  prisoners 
arriving  escorted  by  the  sheriffs.    The  aver- 


170    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

age  prisoner  is  well  dressed;  some  of  them 
are  quite  dandified  in  their  appearance,  while 
others  are  poorly  dressed,  some  of  them  even 
without  an  overcoat  in  winter  time.  One 
day  a  bum  came,  escorted  by  a  sheriff,  all 
alone,  with  a  straw  hat,  at  the  height  of  the 
winter  season. 

The  other  morning  a  big,  square-shoul- 
dered tramp  was  following  the  sheriff  in  a 
lazy,  shuffling  manner.  There  was  no  hat  on 
his  long,  dishevelled  mop  of  reddish  hair; 
his  beard  was  of  enormous  proportions;  his 
face  was  brick  red,  as  well  as  the  hands, 
from  dirt  and  exposure  to  the  air.  A  coat 
and  trousers  which  almost  dropped  from  his 
body,  so  ragged  were  they ;  no  shirt,  no  un- 
derwear, and  a  pair  of  shoes  through  which 
his  toes  peeped  smilingly,  completed  his 
wardrobe.  A  sudden  gust  of  wind  would 
have  divested  him  of  all  covering. 

Half  an  hour  later  I  happened  to  pass 
near  the  head  keeper's  desk,  and  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I  beheld  that 


THE  HOSPITAL  171 

tramp.  In  his  case  the  transformation  was 
highly  creditable  to  prison  methods.  They 
had  clipped  his  hair,  cut  his  beard,  given 
him  a  bath,  covered  him  with  a  striped  shirt 
and  a  striped  suit,  and  he  was  standing  in 
brand-new,  prison-made  shoes.  He  looked 
indeed  like  a  gentleman  as  compared  with 
his  former  wild,  dirty,  disreputable  and  piti- 
ful appearance. 

On  Sunday  droves  of  visitors  come  to  the 
island  on  the  23rd  Street  boat.  The  women 
are  more  numerous  than  the  men;  poorly 
dressed  women  are  in  the  majority;  often 
flashily  dressed  women  with  expensive  fur 
coats  and  stylish  hats  are  seen  elbowing  old 
and  homely  women  wearing  shawls  and  with 
babies  on  their  arms.  Almost  everybody 
carries  packages  of  fruit  to  the  inmates. 
Little  boys  and  girls  often  accompany  the 
women,  and  handkerchiefs  are  often  raised 
to  wipe  away  tears.  It  is  a  tragic,  fateful, 
unhappy  procession. 


172    'M  MODERN  PURGATORY 

XXV 

The  first  and  the  last  week  seem  longest 
in  the  term  of  imprisonment.  During  the 
rest  of  the  time  the  hours  pass  in  swift  suc- 
cession, as  the  work  and  the  regidar  hours 
help  to  shorten  the  time ;  there  is  a  spirit  of 
patience,  and  the  mind  becomes  more  and 
more  introspective  and  philosophical. 

But  in  the  last  week  all  the  thoughts,  the 
plans,  the  ambitions,  the  discoveries  of  a  new 
future,  seem  to  be  concentrated.  The  min- 
utes drag  by  with  a  laborious  and  torpid 
slowness,  and  there  is  an  intensity  of  time 
which  seems  to  crowd  sixty  hours  into  one 
single  hour  by  the  clock.  The  ordinary  pa- 
tient, often  of  a  cheerful  habit  of  mind,  is 
of  a  sudden  transformed  into  a  cranky,  im- 
patient, unruly,  violent  attitude. 

During  that  last  week  I  very  nearly  got 
into  trouble,  for  the  first  time  in  my  ten 
months  of  imprisonment  "with  good  be- 
haviour;" and  this  when  an  impertinent  an- 


THE  HOSPITAL  173 

swer  might  have  kept  me  two  months  longer 
within  this  barred  prison. 

A  keeper  known  and  hated  for  his  brutal 
and  insulting  attitude  towards  the  prisoners 
was  relieving  our  own  hospital  keeper  dur- 
ing the  lunch  hour.  He  was  watching  the 
prisoners  file  into  the  room  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  hospital  to  wait  for  the  arrival 
of  the  dentist.  A  belated  man  came  in  hold- 
ing a  handkerchief  close  to  his  mouth  as  if 
he  were  suffering  from  an  agonizing  tooth- 
ache. 

The  keeper  spoke:  "Who  is  that  dirty 
bum?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said. 
"I  mean  who  is  that  dirty  bum  who  just 
came  in?"  he  repeated. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  I  rejoined, 
angry  at  his  remark. 

"I  see  you're  rather  particular  about  ex- 
pressions," he  said  in  a  surprised  tone. 

"Yes,"  I  retorted,  "and  I  don't  see  what 
right  you  have  to  call  an  inoffensive  convict 


174    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

a  dirty  bum,  when  if  it  wasn't  for  us  dirty 
bums  you  wouldn't  be  sitting  here  now." 

The  situation  was  saved  by  an  old  Irish 
keeper  who  added  laughingly,  "That's  right, 
you  wouldn't  be  getting  twenty-five  per  a 
week  to  keep  a  chair  from  flying  out  of  a 
window,  if  it  wasn't  for  those  dirty  bums." 

XXVI 

Only  after  a  long  while  did  the  influence, 
the  pernicious  influx  of  the  thought  waves 
emanating  from  hundreds  of  convict  minds, 
begin  to  play  on  my  mind.  I  never  im- 
agined that  convict  habits  and  thoughts 
could  touch  me  or  have  any  effect  on  my  in- 
most thoughts,  my  better  self.  During  the 
day,  in  fact,  when  the  conscious  mind  was 
active,  nothing  seemed  to  effect  my  habitual, 
set  and  crystallized  character,  my  old  trend 
of  mental,  moral  and  intellectual  associa- 
tions. 

Only  in  the  last  month,  during  my  sleep 


THE  HOSPITAL  175 

or  half-sleep,  did  I  recognize  the  ascendency 
of  the  magnetic,  unhealthy,  collective 
thoughts  of  the  prison.  They  arose  slowly, 
like  poisonous  miasmas,  insidious  and  per- 
meating, with  a  persistency  that  amazed  my 
startled  and  thoroughly  alarmed  conscious- 
ness. 

Thoughts,  images,  desires,  which  I  had 
been  used  from  my  youth  and  all  through 
my  life  to  consider  unhealthy,  degenerate  or 
simply  unworthy  of  my  attention,  came 
sneaking  into  my  subconscious  mind,  in  the 
form  of  disgusting,  appalling,  terrifying 
dreams.  The  back  yard  of  my  mind 
had  begun  to  register  and  absorb  all  the 
wretched,  unclean,  monstrous,  unmention- 
able yearnings,  desires  and  actions  of  the 
collective  prison  dreams ;  it  was  inlialing  the 
moral  stench  which  arose  as  from  a  "cloaca 
maxima." 

I  thought  of  all  the  weak,  unbalanced, 
receptive  young  minds  which  must  have 
been  corrupted  by  this  intangible,  powerful 


176    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

magnetism;  and  of  how  this  unnatural,  ab- 
normal, degrading  prison  life  began  in  any- 
absorbent  or  indifferent  temperament  a 
slow  corrosion  and  led  to  a  complete  and  ef- 
fective disruption  and  destruction  of  all 
moral  and  intellectual  integrity. 

I  felt  as  if  hundreds  of  unspeakable  and 
undreamed  of  sins,  taking  shape  of  gliding 
snakes,  noiseless  and  black,  with  glittering 
eyes  and  fiery  tongues,  were  descending 
upon  me,  winding  round  my  body  and  my 
legs  and  arms,  fastening  their  pin-like  fangs 
in  my  flesh  to  poison  my  brain  and  body. 

And  I  thanked  my  stars  and  my  fate 
and  my  power  of  will  when  the  last  night  of 
my  sentence  arrived  to  relieve  me  of  an  op- 
pressive, suffocating  succession  of  night- 
mares. 

I  did  not  sleep  one  solitary  wink,  but  how 
rosy,  exquisite,  exhilarating,  radiant,  were 
the  thoughts  that  filled  me  on  that  prison 
cot,  how  transparent  those  bars  seemed  on 
that  last  night,  never  to  be  forgotten,  like 


THE  HOSPITAL  177 

the  first  night  I  spent  in  that  horrible  dun- 
geon. 

XXVII 

I  am  finally  called  downstairs.  The  sun 
streaming  tln-ough  the  narrow  bars  gives  the 
gloomy  prison  almost  a  bright  appearance. 
Hastily  I  put  on  my  street  clothes.  I  feel 
like  a  man  putting  on  a  strange,  exotic  cos- 
tume for  a  fancy  dress  ball;  the  collar  and 
necktie  seem  to  choke  me  with  a  kind  of 
joy  and  affection.  Accompanied  by  my  law- 
yer, I  walk  out  of  the  fateful  gates,  and  then 
I  turn  to  look  back,  and  to  glance  upwards 
to  the  hospital  windows  where  the  patients 
and  the  old  keeper  wave  a  friendly  salute 
and  farewell. 

Friends  are  waiting  to  greet  me  at  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  I  look  in  wonder 
and  amaze  at  the  people  in  the  streets. 
Everything  is  so  interesting;  the  most  com- 
monplace and  sordid  sights  are  delightful 
and   picturesque.     The   men;   the   women, 


178    A  MODERN  PURGATORY 

with  their  wonderful  clothes;  the  sky,  the 
houses,  the  cars,  the  signs,  everything,  seem 
so  novel,  so  friendly;  every  minute  so 
precious,  so  full  of  surprises  and  possibili- 
ties. 

I  have  grown  fat  and  pale,  in  prison,  but 
my  spirit  is  as  light  and  quick  as  the  spirit 
of  a  humming  bird.  Everybody  greets  me 
as  a  traveller  returned  from  a  strange,  un- 
known, and  very  distant  land — and  yet  all 
the  while  I  have  been  living  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  metropolis.  Everybody  seems  to  real- 
ize and  to  reassure  me  that  the  acceptance 
of  a  pardon  would  have  been  a  grievous  mis- 
take. To  refuse  it  meant  a  great  sacrifice, 
but  making  that  sacrifice  has  confirmed  a 
general  suspicion  that  unfair  methods,  dan- 
gerous to  American  traditions,  have  been 
used  against  me. 

The  day  of  reckoning  will  come  in  time. 
Meanwhile,  how  beautiful,  perfect,  intoxi- 
cating is  the  sense  of  untrammelled  liberty! 
It  repays  me  for  many  a  dark,  tragic  hour. 


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